The phone was forever ringing on the supervisor's desk, but the girls in the typing pool seldom looked up.  It was bound to mean another batch of work for someone, and at such times it was best to look busy.

      Then Celia heard her name being called.

      "Miss Moss!  Wake up, girl, stop day-dreaming!  Mr. Hoskins wants you in his office, please.  Now.  Chop, chop!"

      Celia leaned back and sighed.  The summons wasn't entirely unexpected, but it meant another arduous walk across the factory site and a climb of four flights to the boss's sanctuary.  Typical, she thought, how senior management perched themselves at the very top of a building, but denied the use of lifts to all staff below supervisory grade.  With a grimace she picked up her stick and headed resolutely for the door.

      "Wish me luck," she nodded to her colleagues.  "I've a feeling this may be the Big Heave Ho!"

      She made her way towards the prestigious new executive block and began the long ascent, one step at a time.  With considerable effort she eventually reached the top floor and stood breathless outside the walnut-veneered office of Mr. Jeremiah Hoskins, pausing to smooth down her hair and collect her wits before confronting the weasel-faced office manager and his equally smug Chief Accountant.

      Neither made any pretence at a welcoming smile.

      "Miss Moss?" the weasel began, glancing at his watch to indicate she'd already taken ample time in getting there.  "Well, I suppose you'd better sit down," he added with a disapproving glare at her stick.  "The simple fact is, Miss Moss, we're increasingly dissatisfied with your effectiveness here.  I appreciate you have certain difficulties, but it's my job to run an efficient company, and with the best will in the world we can't allow ourselves to be regarded as a charitable institution.  We're not in business to carry passengers, Miss Moss, and to be frank, we're feel you're not giving us value for money."

      In the few years she'd worked with Kays Engineering, Celia had found little evidence of any good will.  But she'd heard the same story often, having been dismissed from six jobs since leaving school.  Now, with her natural vivacity soured by a decade of post-war bitterness, she no longer cared about embarrassing her critics.

      "I don't understand, Mr. Hoskins.  You think I sit around all day polishing my toe-nails?  What precisely is wrong with my work?  Have there been complaints about the way I walk, or are you offended by this ugly scar across my chin?  Would you prefer I'd been killed outright like my Dad and brother instead of being left maimed and disfigured?  Perhaps you'd be happier if I simply jumped out of the window right now.  It's a long drop from here.  Should make quite a mess."

      The Chief Accountant coughed nervously and tried to find suitable words of consolation.

      "Come, come, Miss Moss, there's no need to adopt that tone, and please don't take this the wrong way.  There's nothing personal in this, I assure you."

      "The fact is," Hoskins continued impatiently, "as you yourself admit, you're not as agile as your colleagues.  There may be nothing wrong with your actual typing, but your attendance record leaves a lot to be desired and we can't afford the luxury of having sub-standard players on our team, especially when we're still saturated with demobbed members of the armed forces.  Naturally we have a duty to uphold those who fought nobly for our country."

      "Whereas I was a mere schoolgirl and never even bothered to enlist, unlike my poor Dad and my elder brother."

      Celia felt her anger rising, but she held her head high, determined at all costs to preserve her self-respect.

      "So now you'd like me to cancel any future appointments at the Limb Centre? Is that what you're asking?"

      Again the chief accountant tried to ease the situation.

      "It's not so much that, Miss Moss, though you must agree we've been more than generous in the amount of time you've been allowed off."

      "What this girl fails to realise," snapped the weasel, "is that we've spent a decade fighting to get Britain back on its feet after two World Wars.  I'm sorry to put it bluntly, Miss Moss, but harsh decisions have to be made, and with you I've reached an ultimatum.  Either we reduce your rate of remuneration to a more appropriate level, given your circumstances, or we agree to part company as from the end of August.  I'm sorry."

      Far from feeling depressed and unwanted, Celia's spirits soared.  It was a rash step, she knew, but she'd had enough of being trampled on.  Why not enjoy her last few minutes with Kays Engineering by giving vent to some of her many frustrations?

      "Look," she smiled sweetly as though addressing toddlers, "in case you hadn't realised, it's no fun having to limp around on an artificial leg.  I hate being slow, but it does get very tiring, and while I'm doing my best to pull my weight, your latest demands would sap the energy of a trained athlete, let alone a crippled spinster.  I'm sorry if I don't match your high standards of perfection, but when they threw away my leg in 1942 they didn't stop to ask my permission, nor were we consulted the night Hitler chose to bomb our house.  But I quite agree it's futile trying to compete with able-bodied employees in a firm where efficiency and profits count for more than common humanity.  You don't like the way I run?  Well, boys, I don't like your equally inept attempts at running this company.  So, as far as I'm concerned you can take your precious stop-watches and your management text-books and stuff them wherever they may cause you maximum discomfort - preferably until the day you retire, which I hope for the sake of all your other down-trodden minions will be bloody soon!"

      Having spoken her mind, Celia stepped defiantly into the directors' lift, and pressed for the ground floor.  She felt proud at having lost neither her temper nor her dignity, but there was no denying what she had lost - her job, and with it the family's vital source of income.

      Five minutes later she was handed her cards and a thin pay-packet, and under the watchful eye of a security officer she returned briefly to the typing pool to collect her personal belongings and say goodbye to her friends.

      "You'll notice, girls, I'm being guarded like a spy in case I get wild ideas about planting dynamite down the directors' lavatory.  I'll miss you girls.  It was fun while it lasted, but your charismatic boss insists only the fittest of athletes should work here - and certainly not a sub-standard specimen like me."

      Despite her flourish of bravado and superficially buoyant mood, it was with welling tears that Celia was finally escorted out through the main factory gates.

      It seemed a longer walk than usual to the bus stop - but there was no rush.  No-one would be at home yet.  It was likely she'd miss the next bus anyway, whether she hurried or not - it was that sort of day.  Indeed, 1955 was proving to be that sort of year.

      Sure enough, the uncaring vehicle was already in view and fast approaching.  Any able girl might have gathered up her skirts and run, but Celia was in no mood to attempt such a feat.  Besides, it was a hot afternoon.  The oppressive heat of summer always added to her discomfort, and she needed a brief rest anyway, time to lean against the bus-shelter and reflect on what she was going to tell her mother when she got in.  However justified, her spontaneous outburst had left two dependants with almost nothing to live on until she could find herself another job.

      Her mother, Florence, managed to earn a meagre wage by cleaning other people's houses, a sorely demeaning role for a well-educated woman.  But Florence's gifts and education had been centred on literature and the fine arts, instead of more practical subjects which might have yielded a better income.  Meanwhile, Celia's young brother Robin was still studying to become a Chartered Accountant like his late father, and his contribution to the family funds would remain negligible for at least another year.

      The next bus was nearly full, and Celia was ordered upstairs.  For her, clambering up the stairs of a moving bus was an awkward task which clearly annoyed the more impatient passengers behind her, who seemed not to notice the reason for her slow progress.

      As the vehicle lurched from side to side, Celia slumped into a seat and debated again whether it was better to have a disability that people could recognise and allow for, or to endure private ailments that were less apparent.  Sadly, she suffered both and rarely enjoyed the privilege of being treated like a normal human being.  She had long since learned to ignore the rude cat-calls, and she didn't really mind the daily burden of discomfort, but she did object most strongly to being denied her dignity.

      As her stop came into view, she made her precarious way down the stairs in good time and alighted carefully as the bus drew to a halt.  Then she faced the half-mile walk back to their tiny terraced home in Harrow Street.

      Indoors, she collapsed onto the settee, too exhausted even to turn on the radio.

      For half an hour she didn't move.  She thought about filling the kettle for a cup of tea.  Her mother was due home at five and would welcome a hot drink.  But Celia was too overwhelmed by conflicting emotions as she lay quietly and reconsidered the day's events.

      What precisely had she gained from being so outspoken?  Had she sounded clever or merely childish with her tirade of sarcasm which welled up from a decade of festering resentment against the ill-fortunes of war?  Was it asking too much of post-war Britain, to be allowed fair treatment among so many able-bodied competitors?

      At last she heard the gentle sound of a front door key, a far less intrusive entry than that of her clumsy, boisterous brother who would also be home soon.  Florence laid her shopping-bag on the table, and her kind face showed immediate concern.

      "My, you're home early.  Celia, love?  It's only just gone five.  Is anything wrong?  What's happened?"

      "Enough," Celia sighed, sorely in need of sympathy but too knotted up to cope with it.  "I couldn't take any more - that endless running around at the office.  I've been on my feet again for most of the day, it's so stupid."

      "I know, my love, but surely they understand?  I mean, we did make it clear when you got the job."

      Celia tried to explain further, but her mother was now in the kitchen, putting away groceries.

      "Surely this man Hoskins knows why you can't walk as much as the others?  I mean, he has got eyes?"

      Celia couldn't help smiling.  "Yes, hateful little piggy eyes that tunnel deep into your brain like surgical instruments.  He summoned me up four flights of stairs today to his fur-lined office.  He admitted he knew I had certain difficulties, but made it clear the company's already burdened with their quota of war-veterans, and implied I was treating the place as a charitable institution."

      Florence came hurrying back to her daughter's defence.

      "I've a good mind to write to his managing director," she declared fiercely.  "No-one these days should have to tolerate that kind of attitude.  I hope you stood up for yourself and gave Mr. Hoskins a piece of your mind?"

      Celia nodded.  "A pretty hefty piece, actually.  At first I quite enjoyed working there.  It felt like being part of a family, until Hoskins appeared and began sticking his oars in.  They all despise him.  Lots of the girls are threatening to leave."

      Florence rested a comforting hand on her daughter's shoulder.

      "Well, don't let it get you down, my pet.  Hang in there for a few more weeks before you think of handing in your notice.  Remember we have the insurance to pay this month."

      "Sorry, Mum, it's too late.  I can't stand people with his attitude, the pompous creep.  He's got no idea what it's like for me.  I've walked miles this week, carrying papers to and fro like a slave, yet I still can't please him.  And when I was made to climb those hateful stairs this afternoon for a final showdown, well - though you'd have been proud - I didn't lose my temper or anything like that, in fact I suddenly felt wonderfully superior to the pair of them, and my confidence took over.  I forget precisely what I said, which is perhaps just as well - but I did tell Hoskins I thought he was nasty, heartless and rude.  Then I walked out.  And I don't have another job to go to, not yet.  Sorry."

      Florence slumped onto the end of the settee.

      "I see," she said, planting a painful grip on Celia's arm.  "Oh, I'm not saying you didn't do the right thing, but until Robin starts earning a decent wage we need every penny we can get.  Food costs so much these days, apart from the rent and the gas.  It's all got to come from somewhere."

      Celia looked up with a reassuring smile.

      "I know.  Still, I did get ten days' extra holiday pay.  They're such a mean bunch, I quite thought they'd deduct it after my extra days at the hospital.  But they didn't, and even if it was a mistake, we're still keeping it, so there!"

      "Well - you deserve a rest, my pet, and we won't starve yet awhile.  You know, this really is quite a coincidence because I may soon be needing extra help in the house.  I happened to bump into Edward this afternoon and he raised my old idea about taking in a lodger.  I've no idea what people charge for rooms these days, but we could maybe add a bit more by throwing in meals as well."

      "Like feeding lions in a zoo?"  Celia lobbed an imaginary cricket ball and giggled.  "Well, we certainly need the money, at least while Robin's studying.  And it might actually be fun if we find someone who's not too obnoxious."

      "Then you've no objections?  You think you can cope all right, getting to the bathroom at night, and so on?"

      "Yes, as long as we're accepted as we are, warts and all.  The big problem will be persuading Robin to clean the bathroom after he's used it.  In some ways he's so immature - yet already he's several years older than David ever was.  How can two sons grow up to be so totally different?"

      "How indeed?  Anyway, my pet, thank goodness we didn't lose you too."

      Even after thirteen years it was still a tender subject and Celia saw her mother's lips tighten behind the brief smile.  It wasn't always wise to refer to the past.

      "So, are we all set to advertise the spare room?"

      "I think so," Florence nodded, "after I've taken a little more advice on the matter."

      "But, of course, Florence, dear.  You must naturally talk everything over with Uncle Edward - you always do."

      Celia had learned the trick of occasionally addressing her mother by her first name to secure maximum attention.

      "And why not?" Florence rose to the bait.  "Being an architect and so on, he knows far more about houses and things than we do.  Beside, he's always been a good friend of the family."

      "Friend of the family indeed!" Celia goaded her.  "You clutch at that phrase like a life-belt.  Why won't you admit you're longing for the man to get a sudden attack of bravery and finally pop the question?  The only reason he hasn't," she went on, "is that he's never quite forgiven you for marrying Dad, and he's still terrified you'll turn him down.  And if that ever happens, he'd feel embarrassed about coming round here for his regular cups of tea and fruit cake, or whatever else you give him."

      "You seem to forget he's still mourning Dottie's death," retorted her defensive mother.  "It's been barely a year."

      "All the same, poor Edward needs only the merest hint of an invitation and he heads for Harrow Street like a greyhound after a rabbit.  I bet the man's pining in his lonely kitchen right now, hoping you'll soon find another plausible excuse to ask him over."

      "Good, because that's exactly what I'm about to do."

      Florence glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

      "Half past five.  With luck he'll still be in his office."

      "And while you're gone," said Celia, "I'd better make the tea, or he'll be here with his tongue hanging out before it's had time to draw."

      As her mother set off down the road to the call box, Celia reflected how nice it would be if one day they could afford a phone in the house, instead of having to walk three hundred yards and back, or relying on the goodness of neighbours to relay incoming messages.  Job hunting might be a lot easier with a telephone sitting on the sideboard - as once there had been.

      Wearily, she got up and made her way to the kitchen.  Alone in the house, she rarely made any attempt to disguise her limp - though now, she reflected, with a strange lodger about to enter their midst, perhaps it was time she made more of an effort.

      Ten minutes later Florence returned with exciting news.

      "Guess what.  Already Edward's got us a customer."

      "Don't tell me he's decided to rent the room himself?" Celia laughed.  "That will give Harrow Street gossips a field day."

      "Don't be silly," Florence blushed.  "Whatever next!  No, Edward simply happens to know of a young man who's looking for accommodation, that's all.  And he's very kindly offered to call round and give us details on his way home.  Isn't that great?"

      "Stupendous," said Celia, "provided Robin agrees.  You know how selfish he can be."

      At that moment the slamming front door heralded Robin's arrival.  He crashed into the living room, flung his briefcase to the floor and spread-eagled himself over an armchair to let everyone know he was thoroughly exhausted after an exceedingly tough day in the City.

      Celia murmured a dutiful greeting and sat with her writing pad, scribbling preliminary ideas for her job application letters.  It was never easy, trying to impress prospective employers with a letter typed on the antiquated machine her mother had bought from a jumble sale.  But along with all their other former possessions, the fine typewriter they'd once owned had been lost in the ruins of their Romford home.

      "Edward may be here any minute," Florence announced, to give a broad hint that she'd like the room to be reasonably tidy.

      "Good," said Robin without moving.  "That usually means tea.  I'm dying for a drink."

      Celia put down her writing.  Robin would soon have to be told about her resignation, and she preferred to do that herself.

      "Had a good day?" she asked as her mother disappeared into the kitchen.

      "Don't I always?  Boring nine-to-five slog, plus three boring hours of boring study when I get home, and all for a pittance - while my sister gets paid a ruddy fortune, and has seven free evenings a week."

      "Well, for your information, starting tomorrow I get my mornings and afternoons free too, because - you may as well know - I handed in my notice today."

      "What?  You mutton-head!  I thought you were doing fine at Kays?"

      "I was, till a prize pig called Jeremiah Hoskins transformed what used to be a dedicated department into dismal sweatshop.  That man wants Olympic athletes, not typists.  His addled brain came up with the idea of combining the sales order office with the typing pool, so then he goes on to demand that typists should collect and deliver their own work, thinking this might save the cost of two errand boys.  He's too dim to puzzle out how many extra typists he'll need while they're all running around like crazed ants.  Then today, when I told him I found it hard to keep climbing stairs, he implied his company wasn't in business to support charities like me.  So with a few unladylike remarks, which I don't intend repeating verbatim to Mum, I told him where to stuff his job and his stop-watch, and I walked out.  And as a result, Celia Moss of 12 Harrow Street, London S.E.18 is once again unemployed."

      "You'll be getting another job soon?"

      "Whatever gave you that idea?  No, I thought I'd just take it easy and become the manageress of Mum's one-room hotel."  Celia paused for Robin's full attention.  "She's about to  unveil exciting new plans for expanding the size of our family.  Edward's coming round to arrange it."

      "If you're talking about the spare room," mumbled Robin, "she had that idea months ago.  But I thought it had all blown over.  Oh, hell!  Well, I just hope she doesn't find anyone who's noisy, that's all.  She knows I need total peace and quiet while I'm studying."

      "I guarantee we won't accept anyone noisier than you, dear boy, even if that were possible.  Anyway, it looks as if Uncle Edward has already picked us a candidate."

      "If you ask me, it's about time that man thought of moving here himself."

      "Ah, but Robin, if he did, would he approve of your briefcase lying there in the middle of the floor?  I suppose you're hoping I'll carry it upstairs for you?"

      Robin took the hint, collected his belongings, and scampered up the two flights to his own room.

      Celia smiled as she listened to the pounding footsteps above.  When she first came home from the hospital thirteen years ago, Robin had been very protective, moving through the house like a fairy to avoid contrasting his sister's immobility with his own tireless energy.  But within a month he was back to his old ways, an incorrigible stampeding rhinoceros.

      "He's here!" yelled a voice from the top landing.  "Can someone let him in, or does it always have to be me?"

      Celia was already at the door, having noticed Edward's smart new Jaguar drawing up outside.  Both she and Robin knew that the amiable widower was as lonely for companionship as Florence herself, though both were too stubborn to admit it.  Meanwhile Edward had found himself a legitimate role as a general man-of-the-world and family adviser, claiming he owed it to his late friend Tom Moss to do what he could for his widow and children.

      "Good evening, Uncle Edward," bellowed Robin as he came clumping down the stairs.  For as long as they could remember they had called him Uncle, a title which suited him to perfection.

      Beaming his customary avuncular smile, Edward greeted the two women with a conventional hug, though Florence was quick to free herself, saying she'd just this minute made the tea and was needed in the kitchen.

      "Actually I was extolling your mother's culinary virtues to a client of mine," Edward remarked to the others.  "He maintained you can't get a decent cup of tea in London these days for love nor money.  He swears all restaurants use the same tea-bags ten times over."

      They laughed suitably.  It was Edward's way to parade trivial topics until he had everyone's full attention, but Celia was anxious to break her own news first.

      "So," she began, "you've come to advise us before we all launch headlong into the hotel business."

      Edward looked slightly more reticent than usual.

      "My dears, as I tried to tell your mother, I know next to nothing about the legal side.  I'm only a lovable middle-aged architect.  But if I can infuse a bit of confidence, I guess I'll have played a useful role.  You know what she's got in mind?"

      "Who knows what goes on in the mind of a fifty-one-year-old woman?" Robin observed wickedly.  "But we do know she's planning to take in a lodger.  Is it true you've already picked someone out for us?"

      "Well, now," Edward sighed, "that might be tricky.  After all, this is a rented house, so there may well be some nasty clause in your lease - not that it would apply, though, if you had an ordinary visitor staying here - say a friend of the family."

      "You, for instance?" Robin chirped.

      "Goodness, your mother wouldn't want me under her feet.  No, I was thinking of someone nearer your own age-group."

      Celia took her cue.  "Uncle Edward, I think Mum's looking at this simply as a means of raising funds - because the fact is, I'm out of a job again.  I do wish people I work for could recognise the talents I have, and not constantly moan about the time I take to walk up and down stairs.  I need a boss with warmth and humanity.  Someone like you, for instance."

      As Florence entered with the tea, Celia got up to take the tray and set it on the coffee table.

      "Can you manage?" asked Edward, anxious always to sound helpful.

      "If I can't," Celia replied with a merry twinkle, "you'll hear a loud and expensive clatter."

      "Quite.  And how's the study work, Robin?  Getting near to exam time, eh?"

      "In this household," the boy retorted, as he ladled several spoonfuls of sugar into his tea and stirred it vigorously, "it's wise to steer clear of embarrassing subjects."

      "Steady," Celia warned.  "That's all the sugar we have.  Are you trying to dissolve that, or make treacle?"

      Robin's response was a rude brotherly gesture, and he galloped upstairs with his tea while Florence shook her head despairingly.

      "Maybe having another man in the house will help calm that one down," she began.  "Edward, you hinted on the phone you might have a lodger already lined up for us?"

      "A visitor, Mum," Celia corrected her.  "We've got to pretend he's just a friend of the family."

      "Maybe there's no need to pretend," Edward said mysteriously.  "But I'll come to him in a minute.  Another splendid cup of tea, Florence!"

      "I really can't take credit for putting together a few simple ingredients.  Celia's the tea-maker in this house, just like her father."

      Edward suddenly looked relieved.  "Ah, yes.  Indeed.  Dear old Tom," he sighed suitably.  "It's what, thirteen years now?"

      Florence nodded and glanced at the silver-framed photo on the mantelpiece.  Beside it stood a similar picture of her other son David in his RAF uniform.  And between the two portraits was a small stemmed glass vase which contained, as always, a fresh red rose.

      Edward cleared his throat nervously.

      "Yes, I'm glad we've stumbled into this rather dicky subject," he fidgeted, pausing to sip his tea.  "I still feel edgy about mentioning Tom, and that night, and so on, in case - well, you know, Florence, I wouldn't want to upset anyone."

      "Oh, Edward, really!  You've known us long enough not to worry about that, good heavens.  What's done is done, and it's no use shutting our eyes or trying to forget.  On the contrary, memories can be a great comfort.  To this day I can see Tom's face as clearly in my mind as any photograph, and I'm glad.  I often feel he's close at hand, watching quietly over us."

      She gave the mantelpiece a fleeting smile, something she did often when no-one else was around.

      Edward took another sip of tea.

      "Yes," he went on, "well, it's necessary we dwell on that business for just a moment, because it's very relevant to something I have to say."

      Celia offered at once to refill the teapot.

      "Ah, hang on," Edward insisted.  "This concerns you just as much as your mother."  He looked earnestly at each in turn.  "I'm going to ask you both an important question and I need totally frank answers.  You'll see why in just a moment."

      He paused long enough for Florence to prompt him.

      "Oh, come on, Teddy, out with it."

      It was a nick-name she hadn't used for years.  It certainly suited his rotund figure.

      "Fair enough," he grinned.  "Then tell me - after thirteen years, do either of you still harbour a load of resentment or bitterness against the Germans?"

      Florence looked wistful.  "I don't know that we ever did."

      Edward studied her face carefully to make sure she meant it.  Then he turned to Celia.

      "How about you, my dear?"

      "As mother said, it happened - we all know that.  I'll never be the same again, but there's nothing to be gained by brooding about it.  Besides, today's Germans aren't all like Adolf Hitler."

      Florence was smiling.  "Why the question, Edward?  I know that look of old, you rogue, you're up to something."

      "Do you mind if I light my pipe?" he asked.  "A chap can feel more at home with a pipe in his mouth."

      Florence nodded happily.  Her own father had once smoked a similar brand of tobacco and the nostalgic aroma of Edward's pipe always evoked fond memories.

      "Well," he began, allowing the comforting smoke to drift across the room, "here's the crunch.  If I were to bring to this house a very special colleague of mine, someone who's looking for a place to live, and who coincidentally happens to be a native of Germany, you wouldn't throw us both out?"

      "Certainly not," Florence replied with a nervous laugh.  "Whatever next?"

      "You see," Edward went on, "I happen to know a lad who's been working down in Brighton for the last seven or eight years, and he's just come to join me as my new junior partner.  I had many reasons for choosing him, one being that a client of mine wants us to design a new restaurant - and Paul's truly outstanding in this field.  Also, I've known the boy and his late mother for donkeys' years, so I can thoroughly vouch for his pedigree.  Anyway, he started with me this week and he's looking for a temporary home.  I had thought of housing him in my place, but - well - you know me, I live in a bit of a pigsty these days.  Besides, Paul needs friends of his own age, not a middle-aged relic like me."

      "Relic indeed!"

      "So, what is this man like?" asked Celia, trying not to show too keen an interest.

      "Oh, you'll like him, my dear - I don't know anyone who doesn't, once they get to know him.  He's a brilliant young architect - age, in his early thirties.  I've been keeping a discreet eye on the fellow for quite some time."

      Florence already seemed delighted.

      "Well, Edward, if you honestly think he'd be interested in our room - you know the one I mean - top floor at the front - bring him along to meet us.  Say, tomorrow evening?"

      "Could be even sooner, if you like," Edward suggested with a touch of urgency.  "Easily arranged."

      "How easily?" Florence asked, her suspicion founded on experience.  "Oh, Edward, really!  Don't tell me you left him sitting outside in your car?"

      "Not exactly.  But I did leave him down at the Black Swan with a pint of beer in his hand.  He's not a habitual drinker, but he's probably finished it by now."

      "Well, for heaven's sake, man, go and fetch him," Florence insisted.  "Bring him here to meet us.  In fact, both of you stay for dinner, why not?"

      Edward smiled.

      "It would seem you're ready to accept him," he said, standing up and towering over his hostess.  "He's a nice enough fellow, but - well, I thought I'd better sneak in first and test the waters.  You know - strong German accent and so on.  Same age as David, actually."

      "Dear, tactful Edward," Florence said shaking her head.  "Cautious to the last.  What's this lad's name again?"

      "Paul Muller."

      "Then go to your Mr. Muller and ask him if he'd like a cup of tea and a slice of home-made fruit-cake.  And whether he wants one or not, bring him here to meet us."

      Florence turned to her daughter with a laugh of cheerful optimism.

      "He does sound very nice, don't you think?"

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