Sorry this has taken a while. I found it really hard getting this bit to work and had a bit of a confidence blip. Thank you once again to all of the reviewers and readers for their encouragement - the feedback from the last chapter was lovely. Clearly I should complain about grotty weeks at work more often!

By the following Saturday morning when a suitcase sat on the doorstep of Nonnatus House, long kept in a musty storeroom there, Shelagh was wondering how she ever believed she had had enough of resting. Fourteen hours earlier, the second of two jolting buses bringing her back from Chichester had rolled to a halt at the docks; in eight hours her train would draw out of King's Cross to begin snaking north and another suitcase, rescued from oblivion in Patrick's house, lay in the boot of his car. Yet, it was not her body which struggled. Each day she listened to its pulses, feeling its gradual strengthening as she stretched its capabilities once more. The wearying was in her mind. Her days in Chichester had been halcyon ones, dipping in and out of the rhythm of the day, with stretches of quiet reflection. Mother Jesu Emmanuel welcomed her warmly, as neither prodigal nor stranger, but someone still beloved. Nonetheless, Sister Teresa challenged her, although Shelagh saw the candid probing for what it was: just as it had been years earlier when the questions concerned her wish to join the Order, the queries were to help her understand her own desires, to sift the temporary from the permanent and to discover God's will. Always little, long retired, Sister Teresa seemed more frail and bird-like than ever, her steps slow when they walked through the convent and punctuated with frequent stops; yet her mind radiated the cold smooth steel of intellect. Their conversations were less a discussion of Shelagh's well-being than a rigorous tutorial with an Oxford don where the topic was the theology of vocation and the case study Shelagh herself. It was a relationship unlike any Shelagh had ever had, based on absolute honesty and confidentiality; and when her catechism was over and they knelt to pray side-by-side, she had been led by her elderly confessor to the deepest circle of peace, confirming the rightness of what she had decided to do. She was exhausted though, emotionally wrung, and her mind, while she understood it better now, still turned inside out.

Before that had been the lunch with Louisa Watson, which evolved and lengthened with each fresh pot of tea ordered to lace their conversation. At first she was awkward; the restaurant was smarter than she had anticipated, the query 'Are you Shelagh?' from across the room when she arrived made other people stare and beside Louisa Watson, exquisitely dressed and in middle-age still as beautiful as she appeared in photographs as a student, she felt frumpy and uncomfortable. This lasted only minutes, however, swept up in Louisa's ebullience. It was impossible to feel ill at ease with a lunch companion whose opening gambit was showing off the broken spine of the book she was reading, explaining it was a fabulous new book about a bear from Peru who was named after a train station which was supposed to have been a Christmas present for a nephew but she had dipped into it and got hooked and now she would have to buy a new copy for the nephew and would Shelagh like to borrow this, as it was such fun and frankly such a relief after the depressingly ambiguous morality of the stuff churned out for adults these days? Impossible to feel ill at ease, although perhaps slightly dizzying. Yet before they ordered, she saw the other sides of Louisa Watson, which, even more than the intelligence and humour, made sense of Patrick's affection for her and her husband. While scanning the menu, Louisa casually announced, 'This is courtesy of David and me'. When Shelagh tried to protest, too proud in her poverty to accept charity, Louisa listened, then replied:

"I know what you're saying, and I don't want to embarrass you, but this was my invitation. It's not being Lady Bountiful, believe me." There was no side, only honesty. "David has no brothers, only three sisters who drive him to distraction most of the time. I have no siblings at all. Patrick - he's our brother. And we never thought we'd hear him so happy again. We could take you for dinner at The Savoy every night for a month and it would never come close to what we owe you. So, please, let me pay this time. And when you're back working in a couple of months, lucky woman that you are, you can take me out as often as you please."

Remembering how Patrick had called Louisa his 'little sister' and how Sister Julienne immediately identified the couple when Shelagh mentioned this lunch, explaining how frequently they visited Elizabeth in the last months, Shelagh wrestled with pride and accepted the treat. Then the afternoon richly flowed with illuminating anecdotes about student life, accounts of their working lives, and then a richer tapestry of attitudes and thoughts which weaves stronger friendships than common experiences or people. She teased Patrick that evening, responding to his query 'How did it go?', by announcing they had discussed Paddington Bear, of whom he had never heard, a paper in the BMJ about methotrexate, which they had both read but Patrick had not, and whether Liberty's in Regent Street, a store which he could not have identified had he been stood in front of it, was the best place for buying ladylike clothes off the peg which would last. Although she did not know, it would not have surprised her to learn that in Hampstead Louisa was playing the same exasperating game before finally taking pity on David, assuring him with a gleeful peck on the lips, 'She's one of us, darling. And she adores him. You didn't really think Patrick would pick a ninny, did you?'

Now she stood with Patrick and Timothy, returning to the place which had been her home for so long. They flanked her, just as they had a week before, when she had contemplated the net of bricks confronting her. She had known each bump and dent in the steps, every pock mark on the warped door, but the building had retreated from her. Now the stones seemed to whisper to her, calling her back.

Trixie squealed as she opened the door, crushing her into a hug. "You're here! Welcome home!"

"Not for long, Trixie. I'm just dropping off some things."

"Doesn't matter. At least we'll get a little bit of you in a couple of weeks before you go running off to married life." As she relinquished her hold on Shelagh, quickly replaced by Jenny, she turned back to the hall with the impudent shout, "It's the Turners."

Shelagh opened her mouth to quietly admonish her, but then she caught the flash in Patrick's eye, brightening as what he once thought could never be, now became not just what would be, but what was. Instead, she greeted Jenny, waiting for when she could find his hand again.

"Don't stand there letting the cold in! Let's be having you." Sister Evangelina, now joining the welcoming party, seized the case. They were urging her forward, ushering her in, and at her elbow she saw one of Patrick's hands, ready to assist her over a threshold she had crossed thousands of times in darkness, rain and smog. But she took the hand and leant into it; and he knew, without word or look, that she had seen his look and understood what those few words had meant. Then the commotion resumed as she was hurried to her room.

It was the room next to Jane's, just along from Cynthia's, the quietest spot on the nurses' corridor. But returning there, remembering how she had wistfully lingered outside doors which were closed in her face, was unnerving and she sent the others away before she opened the door. The shape and décor of the room were hardly different from her old cell and she reeled, blasted by terrifying familiarity. The heeled shoes became uneven and she tottered, the nipped in waist of her suit seemed to crawl over her like sin. Looking down, she expected to see the dark blue habit enveloping her. Her bare head was too light. She clasped her hand, seeking the ring, the only tangible anchor that this was not a fantasy concocted by unrequited love gnawing at a fevered mind. Its sharp edges calmed her, but she still sat down on the bed, steadying her breathing.

"Are you alright?" asked Jenny, appearing in the doorway.

"Perfectly, thank you," Shelagh demurred.

"Sister Evangelina said to tell you that there's tea in the parlour when you are finished unpacking." Jenny waited, unconvinced by Shelagh's protestation.

"That's very kind, but I don't know if we'll have time."

She was about to explain, but Jenny was starting to smirk. "Because you've got to take Timothy to his grandmother's and then get to King's Cross? Dr. Turner already tried that with Sister Evangelina."

"And he's now in the parlour, drinking tea?" Jenny nodded and Shelagh, laughing, found herself once again. "Very well, then." She stood up and opened the suitcase.

"Can I help you unpack?" offered Jenny.

Shelagh wanted to say no, ashamed at Jenny seeing the dowdy possessions which still had such sentimental value for her who had so little. But the offer had been too genuine to refuse without rudeness and she tried not to see the instinctive curl of Jenny's lip as they hung up the clothes she would not take to Scotland: the dreary grey suit, two drab shapeless blouses and a thin, old-fashioned cotton nightie.

She heard Jenny's little gasp of pleasure, however, when she unfolded one of two new garments, a pretty light-coloured skirt. "This is lovely! It's just right for you! I've not seen you wear this." So far she had only dared to wear it to Patrick's house, afraid of seeming fast or having selected poorly. "Where's it from?" continued Jenny, checking the label. "If you had a light blue jumper, like Jane's, they'd be perfect together." She was mentally creating different outfits for the skirt as she found a hanger, but not so transported that she did not spot Shelagh quickly remove the last garment from the case and hide it away in a drawer. Jenny had dislodged it earlier and seen it start spilling out of the tissue paper surrounding it: pale and silky, trimmed with lace, clearly unworn as yet. Intrigued, she was about to ask what it was, until Shelagh's furtive manner made her guess when the garment was intended for and she flushed with realisation.

Instead, she put away books and then organised Shelagh's photographs of her family, while Shelagh herself found homes for others of her few belongings – three long playing records, a memento of her mother – then arranged the remainder for her return. Jenny suspected she knew when the simple glass vase might recently have been used and the origins of a drawing of a nun hand-in-hand with a cheerful school boy, although she could make no sense of a matchbox containing a dead butterfly.

For Timothy too the week had been exhausting; inconsistently, he looked back almost longingly to the calm days of waiting. On Tuesday, Shelagh had returned from lunch with Auntie Louisa with a note for him, which proved to be the promised list of plays and a postscript that Uncle David would telephone on Thursday, allegedly to tell his father about Uncle Kenneth's trip to London, but really to find out Timothy's choice. After Shelagh left that evening, he therefore began inveigling; on Mrs. Harrison's night off, Dad was never on call, while no amount of prayer, however fervent, could guarantee no medical emergency the following night. Patrick, while most surprised by Timothy asking whether they had Shakespeare's plays in the sitting room because he was his favourite writer or if he really preferred people who wrote plays now more and just liked the book because it had a nice cover, was happy to be asked. He became slightly more suspicious when Timothy pursued the topic, asking what his favourite Shakespeare play was, then his second favourite, then the third, not entirely convinced by Timothy's claim that he was 'just interested'. Nonetheless, he brushed it aside, reminding himself that an enquiring mind was always to be encouraged, whatever the dubious reasons why it enquired. Instead, he explained about a king who was a little like Grandpa Turner or Sister Monica Joan and always left him in tears, why he liked Henry V at school but never wanted to see it again and what was funny about a man who was a woman (and originally a boy anyway) or a man in yellow stockings. Plucking the complete works from their shelf, he even proved that the stage direction 'Exit, pursued by a bear' really did appear in his favourite play, which led to so energetic a debate over whether being eaten by a bear was sad or funny that the evening eventually became a Hot Chocolate Night. Timothy, after ascertaining that one of the titles on Uncle David's list was his father's third favourite Shakespeare play, thoroughly enjoyed this cultural meander, although he didn't really understand his father's assertion that the unfortunate 'death by hungry bear' incident was both comic and tragic. However, trying to trick his father into a straight answer without giving the game away had been so difficult that he not only felt he deserved the Hot Chocolate, but also wondered whether his father had once had specialist training in how to avoid telling the truth.

Within seconds of the telephone ringing on Thursday, he was perching on an unseen spot on the stairs, hugging himself when he knew from his father's voice that the caller must be Uncle David. Disaster seemed to have occurred when he heard the regretful words 'I don't think we can, I'm sorry. How very unfortunate. It's the day Shelagh returns from Scotland.' but somehow, amid lengthy pauses interspersed with 'Yes, but', 'She'll be terribly tired' and 'I suppose so', he was clearly persuaded at least to consider it. Then came the call up the stairs.

"Timothy! It's Uncle David. He wants to say hello."

Forgetting that he was supposed to be in his bedroom, not waiting on the stairs, Timothy sprinted downstairs. "Hello?"

"Hello Timothy. How are you?"

"Really well," he spluttered.

"You sound breathless. Have you been running a race or something?"

"No, just down the stairs."

He heard a little chuckle. "Well, make sure you don't fall down them. Alright, I'm going to ask you yes/no questions, so you don't give the game away. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good, here we go. Have you picked a play yet?"

"Yes, it's his – "

Uncle David interrupted. "Don't tell me, in case he overhears. We've got to be stealthy, like super quiet secret spies. Well done on getting one. I'm going to go through the list and when I say the right one, say 'yes', alright? Here we go: The Verdict, Arms and the Man, Macbeth, Twelfth Night – "

"Yes."

"Ah! The yellow stockings one. Good choice, Timothy, oddly appropriate."

He knew he'd been told only to say yes and no, but Timothy could not let this pass. Whatever criticisms could be made of his father's clothes, he didn't wear yellow stockings. "Why?"

"Well," began Uncle David, "Auntie Louisa will be mortified if this is wrong, but as far as I remember one of the main characters realises at the end of the play that he wants to marry someone he has known for ages because he's been working with them. Sounds a little familiar, doesn't it?"

Timothy laughed. "Yes. How do you know that?"

"Ah, well, your father, our cultural expert, told us all about it when we were at university and his enthusiasm was so memorable I've never forgotten."

Timothy's mouth was as wide and round as his eyes. "Really?"

There was a resounding chortle. "No! Sorry. Couldn't resist pulling your leg. Katherine studied it last year and I remembered from checking her homework. Now," the tone had changed and Timothy guessed what was coming next, "have you talked to Constable Noakes yet about the other matter?"

"No, not yet. I waited and thought about it like you said."

"Good. I'm glad you did. Have you made a decision?"

"Not really. Sort of." He looked around cautiously. His father was engrossed in reading some notes in his study. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continued. "I looked it up in a book at school. It sounds very exciting. Did you know that Winston Churchill gave a speech after it because of it?"

"Yes, I remember hearing it." He had been in the mess at the base when it was broadcast, huddled with others around the radio, suspecting that soon it would be their turn; trying to perform miracles on the burnt and mutilated remains of boys who now looped and twisted little planes in the air. Earlier that day he had received the message from Louisa that Patrick was safe, that someone they knew had seen him, like Banquo's ghost but real and living. The bull-dog repetition of the words had been like whisky, a sharp, strong heat which stiffened resolve. "It wasn't exciting as such, Timothy."

"I really want to find out about it. I won't upset him. I'll be very careful."

There was a slight pause during which Timothy did not hear David's slender sigh of misgiving. When they had finally seen each other, weeks later and a few days before Patrick would be their Best Man, he still resembled a ghost, saying as little of the evacuation as David did of his forthcoming deployment to India. Only once, after several drinks, did he come close to disclosure, bitterly saying he was no longer sure he was fit to be a doctor. It had been fleeting and poignant, far less alarming than his barely controlled fury years later in the war, and his passion for medicine returned, deepened. But it had been real. "Alright, I'm sure you will. Talk to Constable Noakes. Now, tell me all about your pantomime. I hear you have a splendid role." For the next two minutes Timothy blethered away about rehearsals until Patrick appeared in the study doorway, gesturing to his watch, reminding Timothy that the line needed to be free in case patients were calling, then retrieving the telephone to say a quick goodbye.

The pantomime, originally a source of immense dejection, was proving to be infinitely more fun. Having anticipated social death in a cat costume, each rehearsal provided Lazarus like resurrection after the humiliation of playing a girl at the fete. The great benefit, Timothy immediately saw, was he had no lines to learn; he was astute enough to realise that with a speech to prepare, a violin exam, pantomime rehearsals and his end of term tests all in the next four weeks, he had enough to occupy his time. Instead of lines, he had facial expressions: every eye rolling, eye brow raising, mouth pulling, face gurning tendency which his parents had ever tried to curb was given free rein. The cat in this pantomime was clearly the brains of the Whittington & Cat outfit, miming to Alderman Fitzwarren about the tragic foolishness of his perplexed master and shaking his head to the audience at the sad ignorance of man. Gary Schofield, who was playing Dick, was, in the opinion of Timothy and Jack, not the craftiest cub in the pack and one of the more irritating; thus these sequences required no acting and were particularly enjoyable to rehearse. Jack, who was playing Alderman Fitzwarren, was also prone to rather unpaternal mockery of Peter Williams, the unfortunate who had been cast as Alice, but Timothy, with a certain degree of fellow feeling, refrained. He also had his violin, as part of a long-running joke in the show about 'The Cat and the Fiddle', which saw him playing at regular intervals. Mostly a case of recycling the Christmas carols from last year and playing a jig which was one of his exam pieces, this was another enjoyment.

His happiest moment during rehearsals, however, had come that Wednesday, when he was sent over to the piano to practise with Nurse Miller. The practice itself had been disastrous, as he was incapable of concentrating after she started the rehearsal by surreptitiously slipping two letters into his hand, both with opened envelopes and both addressed to Constable Peter Noakes.

The slimmer letter was from his Uncle Michael. Racing through it, Timothy was a little sorry to discover he knew most of the anecdotes, having been told them by Mum, although there was one which made him see his father in an entirely new light. However, he knew that Granny Parker would provide various other stories of his father's childhood while the second letter made up for any disappointment. It was from Uncle Kenneth.

Over ten pages long, it was by some way the longest letter Timothy had ever received. Admittedly the last two pages were an article about Komodo dragons which Uncle Kenneth had cut out of a magazine, correctly thinking that Timothy would find it interesting. The last time Timothy had stayed at Uncle Kenneth's and Aunt Alice's house, he had watched a programme about Komodo dragons on their newly acquired television set and since then it had been one of their special interests. The other eight pages were story after story about his father. There were certain words he did not understand, which he carefully circled to remind himself to check their meanings later using the pencil he was supposed to use for marking his music, but they did not affect his understanding of the tales. Funny, touching and sometimes highly unlikely, he became more and more convinced of two things: that this letter alone provided more than enough material for several speeches and that Dad had been much more fun in the days before he was Dad. Cynthia, still unsure what exactly she had handed over, soon abandoned the rehearsal to Timothy's bursts of delight.

With answers to all of his letters, inside his head he started to sketch out his speech, seeing the gaps in the story of his father's life. He also started, drip by drip, to ask his father the meanings of the unknown words, never asking more than one meaning at any time in case Dad got wise to his wiles, and never considering that the dictionary might be a safer option. But even this did not make up for the void created by Shelagh's absence that week. It was only three days, she having left early on Wednesday morning, returned while he was at Cubs on Friday evening and gone immediately to her lodgings, and he had missed her with affection but without pain for months when she had been in the sanatorium. But now he was so used to seeing her each day that not doing so was like cutting off his left hand: it was still possible to do everything which mattered, but life was lopsided. On Friday he woke anxious, with no recollection of dreaming, but vividly remembering his mother's funeral. It was only when he found a postcard from Chichester for him while rifling through the post that he calmed. Fretful and unsettled, he asked later if he could put off his monthly weekend with his grandparents in order to spend time with Shelagh before she left again, to be sharply told that it was not only out of the question, but unkind and ungrateful. When Dad reminded him how much he mattered to Granny and how it was particularly important at the moment that Granny didn't think she or Mummy were being forgotten, especially when Granny had been so kind to Shelagh, he was miserably contrite; but a few hours on Saturday morning seemed scant consolation.

He was clearly not alone, though, in craving time with Shelagh. They had been about to depart and share a precious hour together when Sister Julienne returned from a call and began persuading them to stay for one more cup of tea. Sulkily, he had scowled, imploring his father to say no and mutinous when he did not, until he briefly saw the set of his father's mouth and realised he was as riven by the imminent separation as he was. Trying to endure it more cheerfully, he offered to help by carrying the dirty cups through to the kitchen, where he found Sister Julienne stirring the fresh pot and talking to the Noakes family, Peter and Chummy at the table and Fred sleeping in his cradle.

"Thank you for my letters! They were great!" Seeing Peter look quickly at Sister Julienne, he continued. "I told Sister Julienne what we were doing, because I needed to get stories from her about Dad as a doctor. She said it was marvellous. Can we still have tea and lemonade and stories here some afternoon?" he added to Sister Julienne.

"Yes, of course. I am looking forward to it. May I assume then that those very interesting looking letters which arrived for Constable Noakes this week were in fact for you?"

"Yes. From Uncle Michael and Uncle Kenneth. Uncle Kenneth's was the massive one. It was really great. And it had stuff about Komodo dragons too."

"Lots of stuff for your speech, then?" said Peter. Timothy nodded vigorously.

Sister Julienne eyed them all conspiratorially. "Would it be helpful if I were to distract your father and Shelagh for a few minutes now and perhaps you could discuss some of your next strategies?"

This was an unexpected bonus and Timothy beamed. Sister Julienne's commending of their plans was precious to him. He did not know what angels were like, thinking the chubby cherubs on Christmas cards as silly as girls in his class wearing tinsel halos and gowns made out of pillow cases in nativity plays; in his mind, the nearest he could imagine to an angel was Sister Julienne and her approval somehow justified mild fibbing and keeping secrets from his father more than anything else. But he had not imagined that she too would willingly become one of the plotters.

"Rather!" Chummy answered for him.

"Very well!" she twinkled, adding as she left, "When we have our tea will you bring your pig picture? I have a picture I am working on too, about which I would like your advice."

"Yes, I promise!" said Timothy.

"So, what was the best story then, Timothy?" asked Peter.

Timothy pondered. "There were lots of good ones. He crashed a car once by driving on the wrong side of the road, which is quite funny as he's always complaining about bad drivers. Actually, Dad seems to have done lots of things when he was young which he tells me off for doing now. Do you think that's the same with everybody?"

"Probably," Peter snorted, recalling some choice moments he would prefer Fred not to replicate.

"Why? Don't they remember they used to like those things too? It's not very fair."

Chummy remembered her ayah's frequent bemoaning of torn clothes acquired during the types of boisterous games she frequently asked the cubs to stop playing. "Maybe we don't see danger in things we think are super when we're young, but when we're older we do and that's why adults think they're ghastly," she mused. "I'm sure it's because your pa worries about you."

"Hmm," said Timothy, sceptically. "Maybe. I think Dad was much worse than me. He once pretended to be sick when he was student so he could go to a cricket match. I've never done that."

This insight, even more than the poor driving, stunned them both. "I think you should stop now, or I will be quite scandalised!" said Chummy. "How will I be able to look your pa in the face?"

Peter grinned, once again thinking that cultivating Patrick Turner's friendship more than he had previously done would be worthwhile. "I wonder who was playing?"

"Peter!" muttered Chummy under her breath.

Giving the mildest of sniggers, he changed the subject. "So, what do we need to do next?"

Timothy sat down. Now was the time for the conversation he had promised Uncle David he would have. "I've got lots of stuff now and although I've only got a few things about him as a little boy and work, I'll ask Granny Parker tonight and Sister Julienne says she'll help. But I don't have anything about the war yet. Uncle David told me that Dad was at Dunkirk so I looked it up and it sounded," he was about to say exciting, but remembered what Uncle David had said, "as though they were very brave with the little boats, and I want to find out more. Do you still think your friend's brother could help us, Akela?"

For eleven days, Peter had been wondering when Timothy would raise the topic, hoping he had forgotten or decided against it, but never expecting that was the case. "Are you absolutely sure about this, Timothy?"

"Yes. Uncle David didn't say 'Don't' just 'Be careful'. I won't upset Dad. I think it's important. I read that they had to wait for the boats and didn't know if they were coming. Wouldn't it be very brave, taking care of people who were having to do that?"

"Yes," replied Chummy quietly. "It would be very brave. Rather special, really."

"It might be hard to find anything out, especially as we've only got a few weeks," said Peter.

"Oh," said Timothy. "I hadn't thought of that. I thought it would be easy because Dunkirk's famous. Would it be easier if I tried to find out about something from later on in the war? Dad must have done something else later."

"No!" replied Peter, very sharply, remembering the other letter. "No, let's just stick with this, eh?"

Chummy picked up the thread. "What we can do is I'll telephone Hugh and see if he can find out your father's unit and who his senior officer was. If he can, maybe we could all write a letter together to him. It might not work, but nil desperandum! How would that be?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Alright," said Peter. "You'd better head back in before Sister Julienne runs out of distractions."

When Timothy had left they looked at each other. "Better this way than letting him mess around with it all by himself?" asked Peter uncertainly.

"My dear Peter, I'm sure it is. I'll telephone Binkie now. No time like the present," she replied, rising and still thinking, as Peter was, of the letter they had read and re-read.

Dear Mr. Noakes,

I hope you do not mind my writing; I wanted to raise a point regarding Timothy's speech for Patrick's wedding. Firstly, thank you very much for taking Timothy under your wing. It is a great relief to know you are in Poplar guiding him. He is a dear little lad, but takes things very much to heart sometimes and I imagine he has already asked you dozens of questions. Having spent years in lectures sat next to Patrick, who was similarly incessant in his need for information, this is a spectacular case of what goes around coming around. Nevertheless, it is exhausting for the rest of us!

The issue I wanted to raise is Patrick's war service, about which Timothy asked in his letter. I do not know how well you know Patrick and my apologies if I am telling you things you know, but he is normally very private about the subject. Patrick served with the RAMC, including deployments in France in 1940 and 1944-45. He was evacuated from Dunkirk and involved in the last wave of the Normandy landings. He was disturbed by both (he questioned his vocation after Dunkirk), but in particular the business at Normandy, which was instrumental in him losing his faith. Personally, I feel Patrick is too protective with Timothy about the war. In 1947 I had a colleague at the London who was in Patrick's unit at Dunkirk and who, while not explicit, gave the impression that Patrick had acted very heroically. As Timothy already knew a little, I told him that Patrick was at Dunkirk, but asked him to consider carefully whether to pursue it. You will be able to judge better as you are seeing him more frequently, but if he is determined to investigate (which I suspect he is), my suggestion is to encourage him to pursue the Dunkirk angle; the romance of it will appeal to him. I have long lost contact with the colleague in Patrick's unit, but his name was Richard Forbes. Both he and Patrick also spoke very highly of their major, although I cannot recall his name. However, please dissuade Timothy from any other research: I suspect that Patrick will be slightly embarrassed if Timothy uncovers his service at Dunkirk, especially if it was distinguished, but he will be furious if Timothy investigates the carnage at Normandy.

Finally, Timothy described your wife as Akela, from which I deduce she must run the local Scouts. My deep admiration goes to her! I have two boys (aged eleven and nine) at home and find them more than enough. An entire company would be terrifying. More strength to her elbow, and yours.

If there is anything I can do to help with 'Operation Best Man', please feel free to contact me or my wife, Louisa. Our telephone number is Hampstead 361. Once again, my sincere thanks. Patrick is entirely in the dark and it should be a lovely surprise for him. I look forward to meeting you and your wife at the wedding.

With warm regards,

Yours sincerely,

David Watson

"Binkie? What ho, Binkie! Chummy here! Yes. Thank you, he's marvellous, a wonderful little chap. Thank you so much for the hat and bootees – absolutely super. Fred. Well, really Freddie or Little Bean at the moment. I'm actually calling because I need to ask your brother Hugh a huge favour on behalf of another wonderful little chap called Timothy Turner. Here's the fix he's in."