Even had David not suggested a break after the cheers died down, no demand of tradition would have enticed Patrick and Shelagh to abandon Timothy, exhausted and sweating and beaming, simply to cut their cake. As Shelagh took David's vacated seat, Patrick crouched beside it, his head level with Timothy's, seeking words the boy did not need to hear to know that he had triumphed.

At last, shaking his head slightly, he gave a shivering chuckle. "So this is what you've been up to all of these weeks?" Timothy nodded. "All those mysterious bits of paper you kept hiding and endless questions about what botulism means or what a cadaver is?"

"Yep!" declared Timothy.

"And the mysterious confabulations yesterday with Uncle Kenneth and Constable Noakes?"

"Practising! Did you like it? Really like it?"

To start with there was only a nod and a hand outstretched to ruffle Timothy's hair. "Yes. Very much. It was – let's use your words – really brilliant! Genuinely," he added, sincerely.

"And did you like it?" asked Timothy impulsively, turning to Shelagh.

"It was wonderful," she replied. "And so terribly informative! I would never have imagined half of those things if you hadn't told me. Playing truant from university and breaking his brother's noses and fainting when delivering a baby, my goodness! What a man I've married!"

Timothy giggled. "Do you feel welcomed to the family? I mean properly?"

"Of course. You couldn't have welcomed me any better."

"And – "Unexpectedly he stopped, his brows knit. "And you didn't mind me talking about all the things I talked about?"

Shelagh took his hand. There was much which frightened her about this sudden parenthood bestowed upon her, but with sweet instinct she knew what it was above all to which he was referring. Leaning forward, she kissed him. "I was so glad you mentioned your mother."

The choke was marked in Patrick throat as Timothy's dishevelled arms went around her, tightly squeezing before being withdrawn. "How on earth did you manage it?" he asked. "You must have worked so terribly hard."

Timothy wrinkled his nose. "It was quite hard," he admitted, honestly. "But once I got the letters with stories in them, it was alright. Uncle Kenneth helped me plan the speech and rewrite the bits which weren't very good."

Patrick frowned. "But how did you get the letters in the first place? Did Mrs. Harrison hide them for you?"

"No," he explained. "Constable Noakes. When I wrote to people I told them to send the replies to him and they all kept it secret."

"And who all knew?"

"Uncle David," began Timothy, "and Auntie Louisa too, of course. Uncle Kenneth. Uncle Michael. Granny Parker. I wrote to all of them. And Akela. Sister Julienne – she kept you busy one time so I could talk to Constable Noakes. And Sister Evangelina. And Nurse Miller handed on some of the letters to me at pantomime rehearsals. And Bagheera. And the other nurses."

"Essentially everybody then?"

"Yeah." Sheepishly he peered at them, grinning merrily. "When are we going to have cake?"

Patrick had teased him for his appetite, lamenting to Shelagh the habits of his greedy piglet, but when the slices of cake were circulated some time later, neither of the slices Patrick collected were small. A plate in each hand, he made his slow way across the room, first accompanied by Shelagh, offering thanks to guests who intercepted their path, continuing by himself when she was diverted to join a conclave of her former sisters gathered in the corner of the room. Friends continued to stop him, congratulating him on the speeches and delivering affectionate platitudes, until he was only three or four paces away from where Timothy was mid-rumpus with Alex, Oliver and his cousin, Joe, engaged in some improvised game of marbles fashioned from sweet wrappers, played with the solemnity of Grand Masters. He was a child still, light-hearted and silly, but how adult he had been and how much he had seemed to understand in the strident delicacy of his exploration of those difficult truths of love, grief and war. When had the moment been when the child had opened the door to those insights, or had it always been there?

Hearing his name called, Timothy looked around and ran over to the table by which Patrick was standing, hands in pockets, the plates of cake laid down and waiting for them. "Dad! Jamie says he'll teach me to drive. He already knows how to drive a tractor so he'll probably be much better at teaching me!"

"Thank you for that," said Patrick. "Who's winning the game?"

He listened as Timothy prattled, explaining the elaborate rules the little boys had concocted, only half understanding the permutations which altered with each round, in easeful and quiet peace.

"This is really nice cake! It's like Christmas cake, but even better!" observed Timothy, mouth half-full.

"I think we may be having the left-overs as Christmas cake, so it's just as well you like it. I think making a Christmas cake got rather forgotten this year."

"Can't we make one after you've got back on Monday evening? We could make it on Christmas Eve!"

He wondered if it was right that he had hidden even from Timothy that he and Shelagh were going nowhere and their bridal weekend would take place in their own home, Timothy's visit to the Watsons their concession to honeymoon privacy. "I'm on call, Timothy. I'm sorry."

Timothy looked at him with incredulity. "I didn't mean you and me. I mean me and Shelagh!"

"Oh," he replied. "Just as well given I'm 'terrible at cooking', isn't it?" He took another mouthful, amused by Timothy's slight spraying of crumbs over the table and watching him pick up sticky crumbs of fruit from the plate. "Did you get the letter from Major Stewart last Monday?" Timothy nodded. "And that's why you were upset that night?"

"Sort of," he said openly. "It was when Sister Julienne invited me to tea. She said she wanted my advice on something to do with her wedding present to you, but Constable Noakes was there and I think they planned it so I wasn't by myself if I got really upset. Constable Noakes told me he thought you were really brave and I should be proud too and he understands because he's a man. He's really nice. He gave me heaps of advice, right from the very beginning."

The comments were not lost on Patrick, although he did not reply, for there was something else he wanted to ask. He had opened his mouth to ask it when he felt a hand on his shoulder and knew from Timothy's expression that it was Shelagh.

"Patrick, Mother Jesu Emmanuel and Sister Teresa need to be leaving to get their bus soon, but they won't leave until we have, so possibly we need – "

He understood at once and was not disappointed at the prospect of escaping public eyes. "Yes, of course."

She smiled. "I'll just be popping upstairs to get myself changed, then."

She had started to move away, when Patrick stopped her, quickly standing, muttering to Timothy as he did, "Wait a moment, don't vanish," before his voice lowered to a deep murmur. "Shelagh, sweetheart, do you have to?" His eyes were shy in their perusal of her face. "You look wonderful. Couldn't you just keep wearing what you're wearing at the moment?"

"I bought a going-away outfit," she started to protest, but the objection was feebly put.

"Wear it for church or something. Please."

A tint of blush blossomed upon her. "Alright. It's not as though I need to be all dressed up since we're only going back to your – " She corrected herself. "Since we're just going home. I think I'll go and powder my nose a wee bit though." Kissing the corner of the ecstatic smile which had emerged on his face, she vanished upstairs.

He was still smiling when he sat again, although it softened into a different pleasure as he asked his final question. "Timothy, when did Mum say what you said she did?"

Cramming the last of the slice into his mouth, Timothy answered. "When she was in hospital. Just before she left the last time. You weren't there and I went with Granny Parker. The nurse – it was that nice one with the red hair, do you remember?" Patrick nodded. He remembered that gently efficient and kindly soul, drawn to work with the dying. She had been a stark contrast with some of the others who had worked on that ward, the harassed and the harridans. Ironically, she had reminded him very slightly of Sister Bernadette. "She let me climb up onto Mummy's bed and we talked about lots of important things about after she died."

"I see." His cake finished, Patrick reached into his inside pocket for the gold cigarette case which he now felt he was entitled to use. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Timothy wiped the crumbs from his lips. "I thought it would make you sad and you might cry." Folding his arms on the table, Timothy lent his cheek against them, his head angled as he watched his father, unblinkingly. "Like you did after Mum died."

"I didn't know you knew."

"I heard you in your study sometimes. I knew you were sad and I didn't want you to be sad again," he said. "But it's OK to tell you now, isn't it, because you're not sad any more, are you?"

"No," said Patrick. There was more he wished to say, but both knew without it being said: for them a clasp on the shoulder and an offer to let Patrick join in the marbles game would suffice.

It had been tempting to say yes to the offer to join the game, but Patrick refused, knowing there was one last conversation he must have before Shelagh reappeared. Scanning the room, he spied Peter Noakes in a corner, cheerfully recounting anecdotes about holidays spent at his uncle's farm to Rob, both with pints in hand. He was rarely shy with other men, far less so than he was with women, common ground found easily enough; however, he rarely owed as much to a man he knew so little as he did to the policeman.

"Rob, could I possibly interrupt for a moment? I need a quick word with Timothy's conspirator here."

Rob and Peter laughed. "Aye, certainly," replied Rob, gesturing to the dribbles of beer left in their glass as he headed to the bar. "I'll get another round in. Need to get one for your man, Fred, as well."

"Timothy told me what you did for him. Thank you."

Peter shrugged dismissively. "It wasn't much collecting his letters."

"I don't mean that," said Patrick seriously. "I mean guiding him so he didn't get into trouble or get upset. He said you and Sister Julienne were there when he opened the letter from Major Stewart." Peter nodded. "Which I imagine was deliberate?"

"Yes," admitted Peter. "Just a little lad, isn't he?"

"Yes. Thank you for taking care of my son."

"I enjoyed it. He's great, a real credit to you." Embarrassed, Patrick scratched his nose. "Seriously, if Camilla and I do as good a job with Fred and he turns out as well, we'll be really happy. Don't suppose the offer's still open to let me pick your brains a bit about fatherhood?"

Patrick grinned. The policeman's friendliness in the previous weeks, crystallised in the conversation at the baptism, made so much more sense now, even the probing looks which sought the long-hidden veteran's heroism comprehensible. There was little he could think of to offer as advice; the way he had learnt himself – through practice, trial and error – Peter had adopted himself in the past two months with the same boy and with apparent ease. But for that reason, he knew a new reason for accepting an offer he would perhaps have rebuffed in earlier years. "Very happy to. After the festive period's over and things are back to normal a little more?"

"Pint of Guinness, wasn't it?" Patrick nodded. "In the New Year, then."

"I'll look forward to it. Thank you," he said, offering his hand, "Peter."

Eagerly, Peter Noakes took it. "Congratulations, Patrick."

The happy fluster in the hall and doorway carried them into their new life, last bursts of mirth and cheers fluttering over them while last rites were completed and farewells tenderly made. As David jovially shepherded the guests back to the function room, only two people hung back, following the couple out of the doorway into the cold where Patrick's car was parked: Sister Julienne and Timothy.

While Sister Julienne clasped Shelagh's hand, sharing words before they kissed each other goodbye, Patrick pulled Timothy towards him, arms around his shoulders as the boy cuddled into him. "Are you sure you'll be alright?" he asked.

Timothy pulled away, his face scornful. "Yes! Of course! It'll be great. We've got lots of things planned. Alex has got a Spitfire kit like mine so we're going to make it tomorrow and we're going to go to the pantomime tonight! A proper pantomime in the West End! And Uncle David says we can yell and boo and join in the songs as loudly as we like and we have to try to be even louder than him and Auntie Louisa."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Good luck with that."

"It sounds marvellous," said Sister Julienne. "I hope you have a wonderful time."

"I'm sure it won't be nearly as wonderful as Dick Whittington," said Shelagh, slipping her hand into Patrick's.

Timothy laughed. "Can I show you something?" he asked, fumbling in his pocket before they could reply. "Look what Akela gave me!"

It was a small oval of fabric, embroidered in dark green by fingers which had trained at the Royal School of Needlework with the letters O.E.

"A new Cubs badge?" asked Patrick. "Well done. Which one? I didn't realise you'd got a new one."

"It's a special one! The Official Entertainment Badge. It's because of the speech." He squirmed, but the pride was obvious. "Akela made the badge up, but she says she thinks it's OK to have it as I worked really hard."

Patrick's voice was very gentle. "You've earned it. I think it's far more than OK."

"Would you like me to sew it onto your jumper for you?" asked Shelagh. "I could take it home with me now so there's no chance you'll lose it at the Watsons and then have it all sorted for you by the time you're home Monday evening."

"Is that alright?" asked Timothy, doubtfully.

"More than alright. It'll only take a jiffy. Besides, I think I'm allowed to mend things and do sewing for the Turner menfolk now," she added, smiling to herself.

"Thank you," said Timothy and he handed over the precious badge, far more than an award or recognition: the tangible reminder of all he had discovered about his father. It would not be lost or abandoned, left to fester in dust. It would be safe within her keeping and she would cherish it. She was still holding it while they hugged each other, Patrick by their shoulders, only placing it in her handbag as she entered the car. She leant out of the window to wave to him while the engine spluttered and coughed and he knew she would not forget and started to smile and return the wave, running alongside them until the tail lights blinked and the car prowled away.