Thanks, as always, to all the readers, followers and reviewers. Your reviews and feedback are so lovely to have!

As Shelagh began her descent from the bicycle racks outside Nonnatus House, she was not unseen. Someone was standing in a window watching her and scarcely had she turned out into Leyland Street before there was a stuttering knock at the door of Sister Julienne's office.

"Enter."

Chummy stood uncomfortably in the doorway, as though attempting to squeeze her whole form into a smaller space. In her hand was a letter. "I'm awfully sorry to bother you, Sister Julienne, but could I have a little moment of your time?"

"Of course."

Chummy picked her way into the room, meticulous in shutting the door and stepping back unnaturally far from the table behind it in order not to bump it. Flustering as she pulled the chair away from the neatly ordered desk, she pulled too far. The legs hit the table with a dull slap. Winter roses shook within a little vase on the top.

"Oh no, so like me, I'm so sorry," she said, starting first to steady the vase, then making tiny pats at the air as she sat down.

Sister Julienne, unruffled by the assault on quiet and peace, only smiled. "How may I help you?"

"I don't really know. It's more advice than anything else. Peter and I have been in the most terrible fix about something and we've been wanting to talk to you about it for the past few days, except we didn't want Shelagh to know. It's about Dr. Turner."

What inklings Sister Julienne had had, they had not tended that way. Her face did not alter, however she leant slightly further forward, a mild perturbation, which only Shelagh would have discerned, in the slightly keener expression. "Please," she said, "go on."

With a sigh, Chummy placed the letter on the desk. "Do you remember how Peter has been helping Timothy Turner prepare his Best Man's speech for next week?"

"Of course. I had a delightful afternoon sharing some of my own memories with him."

"Oh, gosh, yes, of course you did," Chummy replied. "Well, one of the things Timothy was most anxious to find out about was about his war service. Boy's own hero stuff, I suppose. We weren't sure at first, but one of Dr. Turner's friends suggested we help him investigate one part of it so he didn't go chasing around after everything and get himself into all kinds of scrapes."

Sister Julienne laughed. "I get the impression he is a little too inquisitive for his own good at times!"

"Exactly. I contacted my friend Binkie's brother and he helped us to track down Dr. Turner's senior officer at Dunkirk." Something in Sister Julienne's throat caught. She knew he had served in France towards the end of the war, but she had not known he was there in the chaos of 1940. Chummy, intent on her story, did not notice. "Well, Timothy wrote him a very jolly letter explaining who he was and asking about his father as a soldier. On Wednesday, this arrived. As well as the letter to Timothy there's a covering letter explaining about Dr. Turner's service. I don't know whether it's extraordinary brave or utterly ghastly, and Peter and I are completely muddled whether we should let Timothy see his letter or whether he's far too young." Eyes flitting between Sister Julienne's face and the blotting paper on the desk, Chummy handed over the letters.

Slowly Sister Julienne read the letters, first the one to Chummy, then the one to Timothy, carefully worded for a boy whose age the writer had had to guess at, protecting him, if needs be, from the full truth. Finally she returned to the letter to Chummy and read again of the pity of war, only hinted at in the letter to the son. When she folded the sheets of paper once again, her eyes were brimming.

"What tremendous courage," she said quietly. "A remarkable man." She returned the letters to Chummy.

Briefly Chummy fiddled with the sheets, starting to return them to their envelope, then changing her mind and laying them on the desk in between them. "Yes, he is rather, I suppose." Her hands were clasped next the letters; from a distance it would have looked as though she was praying. "Do you think we should let Timothy see his letter then?"

"What is it that concerns you about it?"

"It feels horribly as though we've blundered into something awfully private which we shouldn't know and it would be the most dreadful thing to tell Timothy if his pa's tried to keep it a secret so long. I ought to have thought about it, but I didn't ever imagine it would be like this. I hoped if we had a reply, it would be something jolly saying Dr. Turner had been an excellent field doctor and stiffened everyone's resolve and all that, not that it would be quite so confusing. I should be boiled in oil for not realising this might be the type of thing we'd find out."

Sister Julienne covered her mouth with her hand, despite everything amused by Chummy's wording. "Is that not what this gentleman is saying?" she asked, mildly. "That Dr. Turner was brave and capable, assisted his fellow soldiers and fulfilled his duty of care as a doctor outstandingly in the most difficult of circumstances?" She paused, watching Chummy ponder her question. "What was it that you found confusing, Nurse Noakes?"

Chummy opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, lips fluttering and pursing before she spoke. "What happened to that poor private. I know Dr. Turner is a terribly kind man and such a good doctor and part of me thinks it was marvellously brave to have done what he did, then the other part keeps wondering 'What if I'm wrong?' and wasn't it a sin? It's against the law!" She dropped her voice uncomfortably. "It's against God's law too. Sister Julienne, you don't think it was right, do you?"

The wisdom of experience lay upon Julienne as she answered. Her earliest nursing, when so young and long before she was Julienne, had been among the maimed returning from the Western Front. The second war she had spent among those whose district was destroyed when the bombs rained down, pulling bodies from the wreckage and trying to resurrect what she could. While she had not travelled from continent to continent as Chummy had, the virulence in the world's dark heart she knew more about. "War itself is evil. All killing in war is appalling. But this killing, motivated by compassion, is maybe the least appalling which I can imagine. It would not have been undertaken lightly. Where we cannot cure, we can care, and I believe that that was what Dr. Turner did."

Unease had harried at Chummy since the letter arrived, buffeting her when Dr. Turner was present; Sister Julienne's voice released the nagging barb. "Do you think we should let Timothy see the letter? He's still awfully young to hear about all of it and I'm horribly worried that it would embarrass his pa into smithereens."

"I suspect Dr. Turner would be embarrassed by praise as lavish as in this letter, although I imagine it is hardly different from the praise both you and I have given while sharing our memories with Timothy," she said, her head cocked enquiringly. Chummy acknowledged the accuracy of the observation by looking down at her feet. "And I am not convinced it would be appropriate for this to be included in a speech at the wedding. I suspect that can be ensured with your husband's assistance?" Again, Chummy silently acquiesced. "But Timothy should know the man his father is. Any son would be gratified to read such a tribute, in particular the final paragraph. It is most impressive."

Together they found the page and read again the words which summated the tale of quiet courage, although Chummy did not need to see them to remember what they said.

"Do you not think there's a dreadful danger he'll be upset, Sister? What if he asks more questions about what exactly Dr. Stewart meant?"

It was not inconceivable, thought Sister Julienne. Usually Timothy was like other children of his age, lively and indefatigable; but now and then the insight which life had taught him would flash, blaze momentarily and shrivel to nothing once more. It was that hard won intuition which made her think he should be told, suspecting he would understand and love his father more for the sacrifices made in the name of duty. Yet it was also why he might fret over the vagueness of some of the letter, knowing more must lie underneath, probing unless it was explained; and to explain it would be to take him far into confidences his father did not reveal, which Sister Julienne suspected he had probably not revealed with his future wife. "Perhaps you are right, however I think it is rare for truth, if it is shared kindly and out of love, to harm.

"May I pray about this tonight, Nurse Noakes? I should like to. And tomorrow I shall offer what advice I can."

"Of course, Sister Julienne. I'm sorry to be such a bally pain."

"Not at all." She ushered Chummy from the room, winding through the chairs of the chapel until they reached the door from which Chummy could proceed upstairs to her room. Smoothing down the front of her scapular as she turned, Julienne returned to the altar to kneel and pray. She had offered the Turners to God many times in the past few years, for healing, then for courage and release of pain, then for the relieving of grief and the blessing of renewed purpose. In the past two months the prayers had changed, but still she prayed for them, asking His blessing on their future, its happiness and sorrow, and His wisdom for her in guiding the son; and then, at the end, as she had asked before and would again, she prayed for the grace to feel only joy when the time came to give away the sister who was most precious to her.

The next morning when she drew Chummy aside, suggesting that while Timothy should be given the letter, he should not be alone when he read it, offering her office and herself for such a meeting if desired, Timothy too was thinking of that letter, rueful in his belief that it did not exist. He was in his bedroom, Himalayas of paper piled on his desk. Every anecdote he had discovered was in front of him, organised into areas for the speech, ready to be turned into solemn paragraphs, copied and posted to Uncle Kenneth. The stories had surprised and shocked him; frequently they made him giggle. Others puffed him with pride, looking beyond his father's shabby clothes, perpetual lateness and frequent worry to find something illusive but of tremendous worth. In the middle of his father's life, however, was the void of the war years, only a place name and facts from an encyclopaedia. Akela and her husband had warned him how unlikely it was he would receive a reply from the unknown Dr. Stewart, even though he had laboured over the letter in the most adult language he could muster. And yet, somehow he had hoped a reply would appear, the final strand of the rope and the one which made it sure. Pouting, he picked up his pencil and tried to put it from his mind: he had an hour and a half before Dad would get home from the surgery and take him to a friend's house for the afternoon. In the evening Shelagh was coming to make Christmas decorations for the sitting room out of brightly coloured paper. In the meantime, he must complete his task. Starting with the topic where he needed no anecdotes from others, his father's domestic abilities, he began to write, only stopping when Mrs. Harrison called him downstairs due to an extraordinary rarity: a telephone call for him during which Sister Julienne invited him for lemonade and cake on Monday afternoon after school.

When Monday came, he chirpily meandered to Nonnatus House. He knew Shelagh would not be there, as she was having supper with Auntie Louisa before attending a lecture with her, events which seemed exceptionally dull to Timothy, but made her glow with anticipation and his father smile whenever she mentioned it. But the house had lost its terror now, softened by frequent exposure. These were women who had offered him generous accounts of working with his father or had helped him revise for his tests. Another offered him surreptitiously pinched slices of cake. Even Nurse Franklin's noise or Sister Evangelina's brusqueness no longer alarmed him, the prospect of them answering the bell no longer fearful.

It was Sister Julienne, however, who greeted him. "How lovely to see you, Timothy! Do come in." Taking his satchel, coat and cap, she asked him about his day, commiserating over the sad defeat of his team in a lunchtime football game. As they left they hall, she directed him, not towards the kitchen, but the chapel. "Would you mind joining me in my office for tea, Timothy? I realise it is less pleasant than the parlour, however there are two things I would like to show you without everybody else seeing," she said pleasantly.

Obediently he followed her to the office, sunnily slouching in a chair. It was tiny, far smaller than his father's office at the surgery, but scrupulously tidy, while the great gold cross behind her shone. On her desk was a tray with cake, lemonade and tea, and next to it an unframed painting. It was this which she picked up.

"This is what I was intending to give your father and Shelagh as a wedding gift. I was wondering if you felt it was appropriate."

In front of Timothy was the Nonnatus House garden, smothered with red and golden leaves, the trees bare but highlighted with glimmers of sunlight which cast shadows over the ground and made richer its tapestry of autumn colour. Against the back wall at the right, in fine and delicate brush strokes, were a man and woman in earnest discussion, their faces indistinct in the watercolours, but their hands close, while in the foreground was a boy in a burgundy jacket and grey shorts, pensively sitting on the edge of the pigsty.

"Is that me?"

Sister Julienne nodded. "Yes! I'm so glad you're recognisable!" From a drawer in her desk, she produced the sketch she had made for him on the day of the christening. "Do you remember how we talked about art and watercolour paper? I was inspired and thought maybe I could turn it into a painting for your father and Shelagh."

"It's great!" said Timothy, picking it up to look more closely. "That's Dad and Shelagh at the back, isn't it? It's really clever how you've got all of the colours."

"Thank you. You think they will like it?"

"Yes! We've not got a picture of us all," he confided. "I got Alec, Nurse Lee's friend," he explained, unconscious of the inadvertent illumination he had just offered Sister Julienne about one of her charges, "to take a photo of me and Dad as a Christmas present for Shelagh and another one of Shelagh and me for Dad. I got frames and everything. But we haven't got one of the three of us yet."

"I imagine that there will be some taken on Saturday," she said, passing him lemonade and a generous slice of cake.

"I suppose so. Mum and Dad's wedding pictures were a bit weird though." After a munch of cake, Timothy divulged further. "They're smiling in a really funny way. We used to have that photo on the sitting room sideboard, but I don't think anyone liked it much. It's on one of shelves now. Dad was going to put it away, but Shelagh said not to. We've got a really good photo of Mum on the sideboard now. Dad took it and it's loads better." Taking another bite, he peered at the painting again, missing the benevolent way Sister Julienne was looking at him. "This looks like Dad and Shelagh, because he looks worried. He's always worried about things."

She laughed over her teacup. "I'm glad you like it. Could you advise me about the frame?" Leaning against the desk were two wooden frames, one slim and light, the other darker, which she held up. "Which do you think would be better?"

Timothy squinted. "That one," he said, after a pause. "We've got other pictures in frames that sort of colour."

With the frame laid on top of the painting, the autumnal colours gleamed even more strongly and they were admiring the combination together when there was a soft rap at the door. "Enter," she said, quickly adding to Timothy, "Thank you for letting me exploit your insider knowledge!" Then she turned to the figure standing indecisively in the doorway: it was Peter Noakes, newly arrived from being on duty. "Good afternoon, do come in."

"Good afternoon, Sister Julienne. Hello, Timothy."

Although Timothy grinned broadly at him, Peter's returning smile was strained. He saw the wisdom in Sister Julienne's suggestion that he was there when Timothy received a glimpse into this corner of the world of men, but he touched the cup of tea he was offered like an explosive.

"I have asked Constable Noakes to join us this afternoon, Timothy," she said pleasantly, sitting down behind her desk. "He also has something which he wishes to show you."

Timothy's eyes darted from face to face. "Is it another letter?" he began. "Is it the one I've been waiting for?"

"Yes," said Peter and handed the letter over. The tea cup rattled in its saucer as he put it down.

Eagerly Timothy seized it, beaming. "Please can I read it now, Sister Julienne? It's about Dad in the war, you see. He was at Dunkirk and that was famous and I never knew what he did but now I will. I know it's rude to read letters in front of other people and I can wait if you really, really want me to, but I've waited ever so long for it!"

"Of course you want to read your letter. Think nothing of it," said Sister Julienne, apparently serene. "Perhaps it's better if you read it here as you could ask us if there is anything you don't understand."

"Like difficult words?"

"Yes, like difficult words. Please, do go on."

He devoured the first few words, then looked up excitedly. "He called me Mister!" he exclaimed. "No-one's ever done that before!"

Peter looked wanly at him, but the boy had curled over the letter again. Sister Julienne watched, observing every movement in the boy's face as he read, seeing him grow stiller and stiller, hearing him say nothing. The features of his face slowly twisted, until he sat like a childish gargoyle.

Dear Mr. Turner (Timothy, if I may),

Thank you very much for your letter. It was most interesting to hear about your father's forthcoming wedding and also your endeavours as regards the best man's speech. It sounds as though you have been most enterprising and I wish both you and your father the very best of luck, in his case for his marriage and in yours for the speech. I hope it enjoys the reaction your hard work merits.

You are right that I was your father's senior officer in France in 1940. I remember Captain Turner (as I knew him) well and am happy to share my recollections with you. Your father was an excellent field doctor: he was efficient, highly competent and never forgot that those we treated were people first, patients second and soldiers third. It does not surprise me to hear he has gone into general practice.

There are two memories in particular which I have of your father, both during our time at Dunkirk. The first concerns his leadership and courage while we were waiting to be evacuated. Your father, along with one other, proposed that the order of evacuation for the medics should not be by rank, but first those with families, followed by those who were married and, finally, the unmarried (among which they numbered). They were both adamant that this should be the case and volunteered to be the last to leave, knowing that the likelihood that they would be evacuated was very limited and the consequences for those who remained might be very unpleasant. Regardless of the possible cost to himself, your father chose to do what he believed was right and encouraged others to do so.

The second memory concerns his medical work. During the war we were frequently faced with situations which challenged us as doctors and people. Your father had a motto, which I still remember: 'Treat often, cure sometimes, care always'. He lived up to it at all times and in very difficult circumstances. He did whatever was necessary in order to alleviate his patients' suffering, even if it meant making decisions which he hated or doing things he found repulsive.

None of the men in our field hospital were decorated for bravery at Dunkirk, however I find it hard to believe that there were many who were braver and am honoured to have led them. Captain Turner was one of the bravest and you should be very proud to be his son. It was a privilege to serve alongside him.

Yours sincerely,

George Stewart

"What does 'allyvate' mean?" he asked eventually, stumbling over the word, without looking up.

"Alleviate," she corrected. "It means to make something which is unpleasant less bad."

"Like making something that hurts better?"

"Almost. It's more like making it hurt less." She could not tell whether he understood the nuance.

"And what does 'repulsive' mean?"

"It means something which you find disgusting."

The movement of Timothy's head was so slight it could have been a nod or a shake. Quietly, Sister Julienne got up from behind the desk to linger by its corner as she refilled her cup, waiting for the next query. She exchanged glances with Peter, now bent forward with his hands on his knees.

Timothy was still bent over the second page. His mouth opened fractionally as his brows contracted. Somewhere else in the house somebody was laughing; an irregular gurgle from the boiler punctuated the silence at erratic intervals. Then the mouth closed again and he turned back to the opening. If either the policeman or the nun released a sigh of relief that the boy was not probing further about those ambiguous lines, it was too quiet for the child to hear it.

Without speaking, Sister Julienne crouched down next to the boy. She did not touch him, but laid her arm along the top of the chair back where he could ignore it or rest into it as he wished.

"Timothy?" said Peter, leaning towards him from the other side. "You alright?"

He looked around at him, then her, now the barriers protecting him from a world which suddenly seemed vaster and more frightening. Although he nodded, his face was fearful. "Sister Julienne," asked Timothy, "can you read this bit?" He handed her letter she had already read, pointing to the third paragraph. "What does 'the consequences for those who remained might be very unpleasant' mean?"

After she looked up, she did not move her eyes from his face. "It means that those who remained, like your father, knew that there might not be enough boats for everyone so they might not be evacuated home before the enemy arrived; and because most of the other soldiers had left, they would not be able to defend themselves."

"Would Dad have died?" he cried out. The shaking was clearer now.

"No, Timothy, no," interrupted Peter. "He'd have been captured and then he'd've been sent to a prisoner-of-war camp. That's nearly always what happened to the soldiers who were captured."

"But not all of them?"

"Most of them."

"Would they have locked him up and everything?" Neither of the adults spoke, the only response Sister Julienne taking his hand. "When would they have let him out?"

"At the end of the war." Peter saw the quick calculation made, the realisation that the period would have been half of the length of Timothy's life.

"And he might have died, anyway?"

Sister Julienne spoke quietly. "Yes, he might. But Constable Noakes is right. Your father would almost certainly have been taken prisoner."

He ignored her attempt to pacify him. "And he let other people go first, even though he might have died?" He had known the answer before he asked the question. "Dad would've known he could die, wouldn't he? Or that he'd have to go to a camp?" Only half of him could see the adults now. The other half was on a beach in France, waiting and waiting, while other boats disappeared into safety.

"Yes," said Sister Julienne, "he would have known and he did it anyway for the sake of other men he was serving with. It's a wonderful thing to have done."

"It's really brave, Timothy," said Peter. "Really brave. You've got to be proud of him."

Until that moment his face had been like stone, staring beyond the safe confines of the room, unchanging. But at Peter's comment, it distorted. "I am! Of course I am!" He was not crying, but his voice was strange and broken. Leaning his head against Sister Julienne's shoulder, he started to shake, the awfulness of terror now laid out in his imagination; and then he turned his face, until his sobs were hidden in folds of cloth where her wimple met the scapular.