It was during breakfast the following Friday that Paul announced he was ready to take Celia to the office that afternoon if she was still interested.  He would call for her at four o'clock.  She was to dress smartly and in no circumstances visit a hair-salon beforehand.

      "He's got something special lined up," Celia told her mother at lunchtime.   "I've no idea what."

      "Do you like him?" Florence asked, a little too warily.

      "Yes, I do.  You said I would, didn't you?"

      "I know I did."

      "Well, you were right then, weren't you."

      Clearly her mother was worried, and Celia was astute enough to realise why.

      "But you needn't fret," she added.  "I'm only going because he thinks I might be interested in doing his kind of work.  It's not as though we're going on a date or anything.  It's not like that at all."

      "I think Edward would have said something if there had been a vacancy in his firm."

      "We're not talking about Edward's firm," protested Celia, irritated by her mother's persistence.  "We are talking about me.  I don't enjoy being a meek little typist, and if someone thinks I can do better, then I'm jolly well going to listen to what he says, even if he was born in a zoo."

      "Mr. Muller wasn't born in a zoo, dear, as well you know."

      "He might have been, the way you and Robin talk about him.  But in case it bothers you, Florence, I've no intention of marrying a foreigner.  At the same time, if you think I intend ending my days as a spinster, I don't intend doing that either."

      "No, I know, dear.  But frankly, there's something about Mr. Muller that disturbs me, and I can't place it.  The simple explanation is that he's German, and we all know what we think about them.  But no, it's something else.  Now and again I nearly catch it - then it eludes me.  Am I seeing David again, or Tom when he was younger?  I don't know.  Isn't it silly when you can't sort out what's going on in your own brain?  Maybe it's a sign of old age.   Still, Mr. Muller is Edward's business partner, so we're certainly not going to be unkind to him.  What time's he coming for you?"

      "Paul is coming at four," she replied.  "And Paul, if you remember, is what he asked us to call him."

      "Well, we do, don't we?"

      "You've just referred to him three times as Mr. Muller, which implies you want to hold him at bay, and keep up the formal interface.  I must try to remember he's here solely for the money, and not because this is Be Nice to Germans Week!"

      "Being kind and giving him a good home is one thing," Florence said with deliberate calm.  "But don't allow his good looks or his interest in you to distort your vision, that's all I'm saying."

      "Is he interested in me?" Celia asked.  "I mean, interested?"

      "He doesn't want to go out with Robin or me."

      "You know that isn't true," Celia declared vehemently.  "He asked us all to join him for dinner the day I had my fall, and you both declined.  Can't you see him for once as a lonely guy in a strange land who simply needs a few close friends?"

      "I'm not entirely sure what you mean by close," her mother frowned.  "But all I want, my pet, is for you to be happy and not get hurt by someone who's on the lookout for female friendship.  And there's another point we mustn't lose sight of.  Suppose you started courting each other, and then the romance fell through.  We'd be left without a lodger and lose that extra income."

      "Oh dear!  How awful!  But I'm sure you'd soon find someone else, a forty-five-year-old cross-eyed Japanese lady perhaps, who'd stick her equally unhealthy alien claws into Robin's heart?"

      It was a taunt Florence chose to ignore.

      "It's never going to be easy," she sighed, "letting that room as it is.  Paul was quite polite about it, but he can't have been impressed.  There's no proper carpet up there.  I can't keep on mending those curtains, and that bedspread isn't at all suitable for a man's room.  We should have afforded him something better."

      "Stop fussing, Florence!"

      "Must you keep calling me that?"

      "It makes you sit up and take notice, that's why.  Listen.  Paul is coming at four o'clock.  He's going show me the kind of work he does in his office, and then we're going somewhere else.  If you need to know where or what time we'll be back, you'll have to ask him, because I don't know.  I'm going to have a bath now and change into something more presentable.  If Paul wants me to look smart and efficient, then that is how I'm going to be.  And stop getting agitated.  He's nice, yes, but he's not that nice."

      Celia went upstairs and got undressed.  She didn't enjoy taking a bath when it meant viewing parts of her own body that weren't a pretty sight.  She wondered as she lay in the opaque soapy water how Paul would react if he saw her as she really was - not that it was ever likely.  Some other man might soon come along whom Florence would consider far more suitable, more worthy to ask for her daughter's hand than this blond German bombshell who'd dropped into their midst barely a fortnight ago.

      But then she decided, with or without her mother's blessing, if she liked a man - any man, even a German - she wouldn't be swayed by what other people said or thought.  Perhaps if David were still around he might have tried talking his little sister out of hobnobbing with the enemy - though they weren't the enemy now, were they?  The enemy had been Adolf Hitler, plus one or two others who weren't around any more.  Paul was no more the enemy than David would be if he were alive and working in Germany.

      Besides, Paul was only half-German.  If only he could drop that funny accent and change his surname, he'd appear more English than half the residents of Harrow Street.

      Celia looked at her watch.  Twenty to four.  He might be early.

      She reached for the chain with her foot and pulled up the plug.  As the water slowly gurgled away she could feel the pull of gravity returning to her body.  Using a technique known only to herself, she vaulted out of the slippery bath and perched on the padded stool.  This agile manoeuvre had resulted in some serious falls in the early days, which is why Celia wisely consented to leaving the door unlocked.

      After drying herself thoroughly, she put on the various pieces of equipment she needed to wear every day.  It was a tedious aspect of daily life that she vowed no man would ever see.  Quickly donning her bath robe, Celia returned to her bedroom where she finished dressing.

      With five minutes to spare she was downstairs in a knee-length green and gold summer dress, sitting by the front window, waiting for the door bell.  And true to his word, Paul arrived on the stroke of four.

      "He's here," she called to her mother, "and he's got a car.  Come and see."

      Celia opened the front door and stood, stick in hand, looking far prettier than she felt.  Paul helped her carefully down the steps in case her ankle was still fragile.

      "I can manage," she insisted as he became over-attentive.

      "Now, now," he replied, leading Celia down to a shining blue Rover and opening the passenger door, "we don't want any more mishaps or last minute cancellations."

      She positioned herself carefully on the seat, lifting her right leg on board with both hands.

      "Not used to this kind of luxury," she said with an apologetic smile.

      "Quicker than walking," he grinned, "and much, much safer."

      After ensuring her full skirt was tucked well inside the car, Paul closed her door and ran round to the driving side.

      "Expect us back some time between ten and eleven o'clock," he called to Florence who stood to see them off.  "I hope that's all right?"

      "As long as one of you has a key and it's not after eleven," she replied.  "Have fun."

      Celia seldom went anywhere except by public transport, and she was surprised how quickly they reached Edward's office.  As if in a dream she saw her uncle's broad frame smiling in the doorway, making her feel like a royal visitor.

      "I'll leave you in the capable hands of this benevolent man," said Paul, "while I go and park the car."

      Celia watched him drive away, then followed Edward upstairs to the offices.

      "Welcome to our new palace, my dear.  You haven't seen it since we had the facelift."

      He led her across the main reception lobby, where she noticed two similar name plates - Edward Rustington, FRIBA, and Paul Muller, ARIBA.

      "Two equal partners?" she asked, admiring the decor.  "This looks as though it must have cost a fortune."

      "It did, but it's worth it.  You don't attract good business in shabby premises, so we've raised our image by a few notches.  Glad you approve.  That's the whole idea, impressing any important visitor, which of course includes you, my dear."

      Celia gave him one of her coy smiles.  "Far nicer than I imagined.  How many people work here?"

      "Seven," he said.  "Two of us you know already.  Four more live through there in the drawing office, and we mustn't forget our excellent and indispensable Mrs. Howard who's worth another four all by herself."

      On hearing voices Gladys Howard had appeared from her room and smiled at the glowing reference to her many virtues.

      "Don't believe everything this man tells you," she cautioned.  "You must be Celia.  I've heard a lot about you from your two admirers."

      "Don't believe everything they tell you," Celia retorted merrily as she followed Edward through to his office.

      "Now, my dear," he turned to apologise, "these seats may be a little low for you.  It's a ploy for making clients feel relaxed, but you're welcome to sit in my big chair if it's any easier."

      "I'll try my luck on these if you promise to rescue me," she said, and lowered herself as gracefully as she could onto his three-seater couch.  He was right, it was low.  She smoothed down her dress, laid her stick on the floor, and tried to look suitably attractive for Paul's return.

      "Tell me about that car," she asked.  "Is it Paul's own, or the firm's, or was it hired specially?"

      "Two out of three.  It's Paul's company car.  We're now partners, so strictly speaking we own half each."

      Gladys Howard came in to place a tray of tea on Edward's desk, her smile hinting that the subject of good tea had been raised many times, with reference to the Moss household.

      "But if Paul's got his own car," Celia went on, "why does he take the bus every morning?"

      "You don't have a garage, my dear.  Paul uses his car mainly for business trips, and we keep it round the back when it's not required."

      Celia's heart gave an unexpected flutter as she heard the familiar voice outside.

      "If he's got you sitting on that new couch of his, don't sign anything," Paul warned with a chuckle as Edward poured the tea.  "Well, how do you like it?"

      "The tea or the office?" she asked.

      "Both," said Paul, "and we'd like to hear just one answer."

      "Very tasteful and soothing," she responded wisely.

      "A clever girl, Edward!  Pity to waste her talents on a typewriter."

      "Yes, indeed," agreed Edward.  "I understand you're interested in trying your hand on a drawing board.  I doubt if we can offer you a permanent job here, my dear, but you're welcome to use our equipment.  And if you're any good, we'll think seriously about using your skills.  No promises, I hope that's understood.  But we know one another well enough by now.  Of course, it was Paul who suggested it.  To be honest, it never crossed my mind.  That's why I need a young partner, to come up with fresh ideas."

      "How long have you two known each other?" she asked.  It was meant as a casual question, but Edward's reply seemed strangely evasive.

      "Oh, I knew his mother when she was still wearing a navy-blue school uniform in Bristol.  Later I visited their home in Germany.  I guess I was an Uncle Edward to more than one family in those days.  But as time went by and visiting became more difficult, soon it was out of the question.  So Paul and I lost contact after his sixteenth birthday."

      Paul listened in silence, self-consciously sipping his tea.

      "Then a year after the war," Edward went on, "out of the blue I received a letter from a young draughtsman who was trying to secure a job in this country.  Whether he chose his profession because of innate good sense, or a desire to emulate his Uncle Edward, he won't let on.  But I was able to find him a position with a colleague in Brighton, and once Paul got his full set of medals I decided I'd take him on board here as my partner."

      "Paul told me he had a guardian angel, Uncle Edward, but I didn't realise it was someone we both knew."

      "Well," Edward concluded with a blush.  "I owed a great debt to his family and this is the best way to repay it.  Besides, he makes a damned good partner.  Now, if you've finished your tea, we'll go sight-seeing."

      Two powerful pairs of arms reached out and helped Celia to her feet.  First she was taken into Mrs. Howard's area where a modern electric typewriter caught her envious eye.  Then both gentlemen held open the wide double doors that led through to the long drawing office with its low ceiling and diffused overhead lighting.

      Three young men and a girl were seated at large drawing boards, each with a sheet of glazed blue linen bearing finely detailed drawings of some prestigious new house or public building.

      They each looked up, impressed that their attractive visitor merited a double escort.  Celia gave an involuntary shudder as she realised the potential danger of tripping suddenly, crashing into one of the boards and perhaps ruining weeks of work.  Having left her stick in Edward's office, she instinctively tightened her hold on Paul's arm.

      Paul led her to a vacant drawing board at the far end, and with enthusiasm and patience he began demonstrating various pieces of equipment.  He showed her samples of work the others were producing, ranging from a simple bus shelter or summer-house to large municipal offices and a new supermarket.

      Most impressive were the houses - spacious dwellings of a kind Celia was convinced she'd never be likely to live in, or even enter.  But there was no harm in dreaming.  She might find great satisfaction in drawing up such plans, even if they were only homes for other people.  She smiled gratefully as Paul gave her his undivided attention, showing her novel ideas of his own, neat space-saving layouts which would be a boon in any kitchen, and artful ways of making use of awkward corners.  She found an enviable elegance in the simplicity of his ideas, seemingly so obvious once someone had thought of them.

      Until Celia happened to glance up, she had no idea that everyone else had gone home.  She'd been so intent on listening to Paul and studying his drawings, she was amazed to find how late it was.  Edward had just returned to check that his dearly loved "niece" wasn't being bored out of her mind by an over-enthusiastic mentor.

      "Do you realise that in Japan," he said, "the dicky birds are already gathering to sing the dawn chorus?"  He beamed that lovable broad smile which spread across his face whenever he said something silly.  Such a remark didn't impart information; it was intended simply to make them look at their watches.  It was half past six.  Celia had been totally engrossed for nearly two hours.

      "Time to lock the toy-cupboard for another day," said Edward.  "What are you children planning to do next?"

      "That's still a secret," Paul replied.  "But I promised faithfully we'd be home by eleven, so we'd better get moving.  I'll fetch the car if you guarantee to have this lady waiting outside by the time I'm back."

      Clicking his keys like castanets and humming a little tune to himself, Paul skipped out of the office while Edward took Celia back to the reception area to collect her stick.

      "He's such an enthusiast," she said as they made their way downstairs.

      "Paul?  He loves every minute of what he does.  I'm so glad you like him.  At first I had doubts about introducing him, but it seems to be working out.  Well, doesn't it?" he added, seeing her frown.

      "No problem here," Celia confided.  "But I'm not so sure about Mum.  We had a bit of an argument this afternoon.  I think she's afraid he may run off with me, and then ditch me somewhere."

      "Who?  Paul?  Never!" Edward insisted.  "But I'll put in a quiet word if you need my support."

      "I don't know what I need yet.  But Mum's been firing warning shots.  Something's bothering her about Paul, and I don't think it's just because he's German."

      Edward raised an eyebrow.  "Maybe he's not as German as she thinks?"

      "I know his mother was English.  Mum knows that too.  We'll see.  It's early days yet.  Can I ask you something?  Do you know where he's taking me tonight?"

      "I do, my dear, but you're getting no clues from me."

      "That's okay.  I don't want any.  But if you know, then it means you approve, and that makes it all right."

      "It's perfectly all right," he said as they went outside.  "And I will reveal this much - it's somewhere very special to Paul.  Do bear in mind though, the sea can get awfully rough off the Cornish coast."

      For a moment Celia looked alarmed.  "Is that where we're going?"

      "I sincerely hope not.  But for those who do live down that way, the sea can..."

      "Get awfully rough off the Cornish coast," they chorused together with a nod.

      "Oh, Uncle Edward!  You're adorable."

      She squeezed his hand and stood up on her toes to kiss him.

      "I know," he sighed.  "We'll have to do something about that, won't we.  Tell your mother, Barkis sends his love."

      "Who?"

      "Just an obscure reference from Dickens - though on second thoughts, we might do better not to rock the boat.  Let's hope matters take their own natural course, eh?  Here comes your taxi."

      Paul silently drew up and leapt out of the car like a well-trained chauffeur.  Celia was helped on board, and with a final wave to Uncle Edward she sat back like a princess and allowed the evening's adventure to unfold.

      The powerful Rover moved smoothly through evening traffic which always clogged the main roads out of London.  Celia noted they were travelling south, but she made no attempt to discuss it.  If Paul wanted to surprise her, then surprised she would be.

      Soon they were well clear of the urban sprawl and heading down the A23 towards Redhill and Crawley.  Celia knew that if they continued south for another hour they'd end up somewhere near Brighton, which was where Paul used to work before he teamed up with Edward.  Was this just a coincidence?

      It was a fine summer's evening and the western sky now showed tempting blushes of flamingo, promising a spectacular sunset as the day began to fade.

      "Just as well it's summer," Paul remarked suddenly, "or the place would be too dark to see when we got there."

      "I love this time of day," Celia observed.  "It's so pretty and peaceful, especially when we get away from all that built-up area.  This is lovely out here, I'm enjoying it so much.   Thank you."

      "Would you rather live in the countryside?"

      "Oh, yes," she said at once.  "But shopping can't be easy, can it?  And unless there's a good bus service I'd need a car, except of course I can't drive.  Also there aren't so many jobs to be had."

      "True," he said quietly.  "Though luckily, in my job, I often get to drive out here on business.  Just think of it, spending half your day motoring through scenery like this - and getting paid for it."

      "It must be very nice," she said, wondering if maybe he'd take her on some future business trip.

      "Before teaming up with Edward," he went on casually, "I worked on a big contract near here.  I drove up from Brighton every week to visit my client and check that everything was running smoothly, but I never grew tired of the journey.  It was a most satisfying job too, because I felt that what I achieved here was particularly outstanding."

      He turned to look at her.  "Please, I hope that didn't sound like boasting.  What I'm trying to say is that sometimes you know you've been lucky enough to create something really special.  In a few minutes perhaps you'll understand what I'm talking about.  Eighteen months ago it was just an idea in my mind - as you say, a twinkle in the eye.  A year ago it was a set of blueprints like the ones you saw today.  Eight months ago it was all squishy brown mud, dirty concrete mixers, and piles of bricks and timber, all waiting for something exciting to happen.  Now, it's finished, but I've only seen photographs so far.  I haven't yet seen how it looks in real life, and do you want to hear a secret?  Suddenly I feel very nervous."

      "Why?  What sort of place is it?"

      "Hopefully, one of my more successful ventures," he continued, stalling until the moment came.  "One of those happy combinations of doing a good job for a satisfied client, and also having the chance to prove myself.  They wanted something new, that looked old, and felt like an antique.  We've used up-to-date building materials and complied with every modern standard, hoping that the end result wouldn't resemble a cheap fake.  It had to feel like a genuinely old building, you see, scrubbed clean and resurrected out of the past for a new life in the twentieth century.  Do you understand?"

      "I think so," she said.  "But you didn't answer my question.  What sort of building is it?"

      "You'll see.  I wanted this place to look, not like a relic from the past, but more as a time-traveller would find it.  I may have been successful or I may have failed.  And now's the moment when you should beg for your guardian angel to keep his fingers firmly crossed."

      Paul pulled off the road and drove gently into a spacious car park surrounding an old coaching inn, set well back from the main road.  Dozens of cars were already there, but he soon found an empty space and manoeuvred into a position facing the restaurant.  There he switched off the engine and remained quite still, studying the tranquil scene.

      Ahead of her, Celia saw a charming old building which seemed to nestle comfortably in the eighteenth century, yet in the evening twilight it looked brand new.  It was indeed as though she had slipped back several hundred years, seeing it as it had been when it was first built, in the days of George the first.

      She glanced discreetly at Paul.  He sat motionless with held breath, his mouth open, almost trembling as he cast a critical eye over the building.  Finally he turned to Celia with tightened lips, and his eyes were glistening.

      "Well?" he asked very quietly.  "Feeling hungry?"

      "Is this it?" she whispered.

      With a sudden boyish impulse, Paul leapt out of the car and darted round to open Celia's door.

      "First we need to get this awkward foot planted firmly on the ground," she said as she applied both hands to her right leg, lifting it out of the car and onto the gravel.  Then, taking Paul's arms, she allowed herself to be pulled forward into a standing position, where for a brief moment she remained firmly in his embrace.

      "Do you really need that thing?" he asked as she reached back for her stick.

      "You don't want me to trip over again," she said, "especially not tonight.  But I can leave it in the car if you prefer."

      "I'm hoping soon you won't need it at all.  And you won't tonight if you hold tightly onto my arm."

      Celia decided to defer commenting on the building until they were safely inside.  She liked it so much, she wanted Paul to know she was utterly sincere when she said so.  To utter an immediate cascade of approval might have sounded like predictable clichés, and not what she genuinely felt.

      Inside they were greeted by a hostess.  Hearing the name of Muller she nodded respectfully and led them to a quiet alcove where a waiter stood in attendance.

      "Good evening, sir, good evening, madam.  Would you care for something from the bar?"

      Paul turned first to Celia, and she spontaneously ordered a gin and orange.

      "A small glass of Pilsner for me," added Paul.

      Celia gazed around at the interior decor, nodding her satisfaction.

      "This is absolutely charming," she said, "like being in another century.  It looks new but yet so naturally old.  Is this really all your own work?"

      "I had to be quite firm about the decor," he confided.  "It was part of the agreement that they didn't make the interior too modern."

      "It's extremely tasteful.  What's the food like?"

      "We're about to find out," he whispered as a tall man in a lounge suit approached.

      "Mr. Muller, welcome.  I hope you approve?  And you've brought your charming companion at last - someone very special, you said."  The man smiled approvingly at Celia.  "You're both very welcome, and this evening you are my guests."

      He handed them two large menus, and leaned confidentially towards Celia.  "A real genius, this man of yours, we are delighted.  Who wouldn't be?  I'll return when you're ready to order."

      Celia picked up her menu which listed an abundance of dishes, any of which she might have chosen.  She glanced up enquiringly to find Paul looking not at his menu but at her.  She gave an approving smile.

      "Looks good," she said.  "It's not too crowded."

      "Is that good or bad?"

      "Oh, I prefer it, though naturally I want such a nice place to have plenty of customers."

      Paul reminded her of the many cars she had seen outside.

      "It's done to give a quiet atmosphere," he explained.  "Most of the customers are thinking as you do, how quiet it is.  Don't use your eyes, use your ears instead."

      Celia sadly shook her head.

      "I can't hear too well," she admitted.  "I can hear people all right when they talk to me, but I can't hear small sounds, not any more.  I'm afraid you'll find I'm a mass of hidden defects besides being an amputee."

      Celia threw in the ugly word quite deliberately to test Paul's reaction.  Anyone who became a close friend would have to accept her as she was, and not try to ignore the truth.  But Paul showed no sign of embarrassment, nor did he seek to apologise for having two legs of his own.  He reacted precisely as she would have wished.

      "Then let me tell you what I hear," he said, leaning towards her.  "There's a low background noise of contented conversation.  It isn't loud, it's just at the right level.  In a crowded restaurant with lots of people packed closely together, they tend to whisper at first for fear of being overheard.  Then as the wine flows and the evening wears on, people forget their inhibitions and talk far too loudly, creating so much noise that everyone eventually has to shout.  Neither situation is good or conducive to relaxation.  Here we have a restful ambience, and the diners shouldn't feel crowded.  I hope it works."

      "I think it's very successful," she said as their drinks arrived.  "I like being here."

      "Good.  That's exactly how I want everyone to feel.  If customers like being here they'll come again, and I shall be happy.  If you like being here too, what a wonderful bonus that is for me."

      He raised his glass.  "I wish you long life, prosperity and your fair share of happiness."

      "And I wish you lots more inspired creations, a great life, and as much success as you can handle.  I think you've got a great future ahead of you, Paul, and I hope it brings you happiness and fulfilment too."

      "Let's hope we're both lucky.  Did you enjoy your visit to our headquarters?"

      "Very much," she replied, "but I doubt if I have the skills you try to credit me with.  I'm a simple girl, Paul.  Maybe it's better if I stick to what I know."

      "That's hardly the spirit of Dunkirk or the Normandy landing."

      "Yes, well - I'd rather not be reminded about that, thank you."

      "Sorry," he said.  "Just trying to talk naturally about what is now history.  Does it still distress you?"

      "Everything about war distresses me."

      "So, instead we talk only of the future.  Have you ever been to Bristol?"

      "Only when I was very young.  We went on holiday to Weston-super-Mare, but that was before..."

      "Before the event we mustn't mention, eh?"

      Celia looked at him coyly and grinned.

      "Turning to a happier subject," he suggested, "have you decided what you're going to eat?  Don't forget, tonight's meal is on the house, so there's no need to be modest.  I am going to order a Wiener Schnitzel."

      "It sounds German.  What would I get if I ordered the same thing?"

      "Another Wiener Schnitzel.  Actually it's Austrian, and it's a flat piece of breaded veal, maybe with an anchovy on top."

      "Let's both have the same," she said.  "I'm putting my trust in you tonight."

      "I like the sound of that.  And I shall never betray such a trust, I promise you.  Do you drink wine?"

      "Not often."

      "Shall we have a bottle of Riesling tonight?  Now that is German."

      Celia's decisive nod effectively summoned the waiter.  Paul ordered wine and the main course, then lifted his beer glass in another toast.

      "Peace in our time!" he said.

      "And happiness to all who deserve it," Celia replied as their glasses rang together.

      After that came an awkward silence which to Celia seemed unending.  Paul kept gazing at her, as if wanting to ask a hundred questions about her life, perhaps her disabilities.  What was he thinking about?  Her leg, presumably, and maybe the scar on her chin.  Was he trying to study it without staring?

      It wasn't a big scar, merely a minor blemish, and for much of the time it hardly showed.  At other times though, when she said certain words or moved her chin in a particular way, it became quite apparent.  It certainly wasn't ugly, any more than a knot in a piece of wood is ugly.  In fact when Celia wrinkled her face in a coy smile, it became one of her most endearing features, if she only knew.

      Celia wondered what she should talk about.  Not the war, obviously, though she wanted to know a lot more about Paul's background.  It wasn't his fault he was brought up in Nazi Germany, but knowledge of this fact lurked constantly in her mind.  He was good-looking, a tall outdoor man with smooth blond hair swept straight back as though he were on a high-speed motor bike.  And he had the most enchanting smile too which aroused exciting emotions that Celia felt sure her mother would seek to discourage.

      Why wasn't he saying anything?  Was he bored already by the company of a humble typist?  She hoped not.  Maybe he was still admiring his handiwork, savouring the quiet ambience in a glow of private satisfaction.  He seemed modest enough, but deep down he surely knew he'd produced something quite exceptional.  A true creative artist knows instinctively when he's achieved a great work - he doesn't need to be told.

      Yet she was sure he would like to be told, if only she could prevent it from sounding like sycophantic flattery?  How could she convince him she meant it?

      "You know, Paul," she began.

      "I do hope..." he said at the same moment, and they both laughed.

      "I am so sorry," he apologised.  "You were saying?"

      "I was thinking how good this place is and how pleased you must feel about having created somewhere so..." - she searched for the right word - "...so right, so very relaxing, a mixture of informality and a sense of occasion.  It's special.  I don't know how else to put it, except as I said before - I like being here."

      "Is that the building or your escort?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

      "Heads, it's both; tails, it's one or the other.  Both, I've decided, because the building is you.  And I was thinking just now how to express that without sounding sentimental.  I truly mean it."

      "I know.  Your eyes don't tell lies," he said, studying her intently as though longing to add something more personal.

      "Shall I tell you something rather personal?" Celia said before he could continue.  "A moment ago I felt worried because you couldn't find anything to talk about.  Then I realised it was the same for me."

      "Well, some sensitive issues are best avoided."

      "Maybe for a while.  I wouldn't want to upset you, and you are a very sensitive person, Paul, I can tell.  You proved that, the moment we arrived.  Were you always like that?   Sensitive?  What you were like as a little boy?  And how old were you when you first wanted to become an architect?"

      "What a lot of questions!" he laughed.  "I was eight.  I remember it well.  I was helping my father construct a large wooden doll's house for my sister, and I kept trying to tell him how to improve it.  But he wouldn't listen.  He wasn't an easy father, you know.  Little Heidi still had that doll's house in her room right to the end when it was all destroyed."

      "You see?" she sighed.  "We both have a lot of delicate subjects."

      "We both lost the homes we grew up in.  I'm told you were inside yours.  Do you want to tell me about it?"

      Celia shook her head.  "Not tonight.  Tell me about some of the new projects you're working on."

      She learned forward with interest, cupping her chin in her hands, and subconsciously placing the little finger of her left hand over the scar she was so conscious of.

      "Much of my work is dull," he said, "what we call bread-and-butter jobs."

      "Uncle Edward mentioned a bus-station," she reminded him.  "Sounds interesting."

      "There aren't many beautiful bus stations around Europe.  Tourists may flock to see Canterbury Cathedral, but how many make a beeline with their cameras for Canterbury Bus Station?  Some buildings have to be purely functional, because of cost.  Others can please the eye."

      "Like the place we're in," she observed.  "And you truly haven't been here before?"

      "Not when it's been open for business, no."

      "And you came the first time with me?  That feels like a tremendous compliment, Paul.  If it is, I'd like to thank you very much, because I'm very pleased to be here with you."

      "So you said three times," he laughed.  "Soon I shall believe you."

      Two waiters arrived with a trolley.  Paul and Celia sat in silence as the food was attentively served onto two large oval plates.

      "Do you mind if I do something rather spontaneous?" said Celia as the waiters left.  "I'm going to anyway, because - well, I feel I want to.  Give me your hands."

      Before Paul could pick up his knife and fork, she leaned across the table and took his hands in hers.  Then she closed her eyes.

      "Dear God," she whispered, "thank you for bringing us to this lovely new place.  Bless the food here and all the good people who'll be coming to enjoy it, and bless this clever man for making it all possible.  Amen.  There.  I say, I hope you didn't mind me doing that?"

      Paul looked away and said nothing till finally he replied in a soft unsteady voice.

      "Of course not.  But as you've already witnessed, I'm an emotional sort of person.  That was so unexpected and very touching."  He took a long, deep breath and bit his lower lip.  "Thank you.  You just created for me a very special moment in my life.  Every time I think of this place, I'll remember that moment and think of you.  I mean it."

      Seeing a tear trickling onto Paul's cheek, Celia sensed he might appreciate being left on his own for a minute, so she took the opportunity to excuse herself.

      "Well, here comes another memorable moment, Paul, as I find my own way to the ladies' room without my stick - and without an escort.  I hope the architect remembered to include a ladies' room on his plans?"

      "Of course," he said, leaping up to help her.  "It's through there and to the right," he added with authority.  "Are you sure you can manage?"

      "Don't you think it's high time I tried?"

      While Celia followed his directions, Paul wandered off on his own to have a quiet word with the manager.  Minutes later she reappeared with a confident smile, and as Paul helped her into her chair, she noticed a large red rose, carefully placed across a fresh table napkin.

      "A small token of my appreciation," Paul said.  "I couldn't have found a nicer companion to bring if I'd designed her myself."

      "I'm probably the only guest here," she remarked shyly, "who was partially designed on a drawing board."

      Paul looked worried.  "Sorry, that was a tactless thing for me to say.  It was meant as a joke."

      "So was my reply," she smiled, reaching across the table to clasp his hand.  "Come on, Mr. Architect, eat up.  Let's see if the food makes this place doubly worth a second visit."

      Throughout the evening Paul talked more about his childhood and schooldays, and Celia had plenty of stories to exchange about hers.  They drank more wine and Celia was encouraged to finish the remaining half-bottle of Riesling.

      "It doesn't matter if you fall asleep on the way home," Paul said.  "But it'll be a lot healthier for both of us if I don't."

      He watched her pretty face as she sipped.  She seemed all at once so naive - so childlike, as Edward had observed.

      Paul glanced at his watch.  "Do you realise it's after ten," he exclaimed urgently.  "I'll face the firing squad if I don't soon deliver you home in one piece."

      Celia was now feeling very relaxed, and had no qualms about shocking anybody, least of all Paul.

      "Actually as you know," she confided, "I come in two separate pieces, but Florence would appreciate getting the main part back home by eleven.  On second thoughts, we'll bring the leg too.  It'll feel lonely if we leave it here on its own with no bed to sleep under.  Come on, leg," she whistled softly.  "Time for walkies!"

      Paul took her by the arm, and guided her safely to the foyer.  He left a handsome tip for the waiters, paid due respects to the manager, and ushered Celia carefully out into the fresh night air.

      "You wait here by the entrance, my dear.  I'll go and fetch the car."

      "No," she insisted.  "This thing needs exercise.  It's done nothing useful all evening apart from guiding me to the ladies.  Come on, quick march!  Left, bonk, left, bonk, left bonk!"

      Paul was thoroughly taken aback, embarrassed by her high spirits.  He had no objections to her carefree laughter, but he wasn't sure how to handle her if she became even more boisterous.

      "You are an amazing girl," he said.  "I've never met anyone like you."

      "Neither have I.  There aren't many of us about.  Most of the girls are boring old bipeds.  They just don't know the fun you can get out of a gadget like this.  No chilblains, no housemaid's knee, no varicose veins.  There's a thought, Paul!  Remind me to order my next one with little varicose veins painted down the sides, next time I visit the Roehampton leg shop.  We all need a touch more realism."

      She had difficulty uttering the last word, and Paul could only repeat that she was an amazing girl.

      "Well, I have to be, don't I?  Don't have a lot of choice.  It's the bloomin' rationing again.  One leg each, madam, that's yer lot."

      "Come on, priceless lady.  Into the car.  Do you need any help?"

      "Perhaps it'll do it on its own."  She gave an encouraging whistle.  "Here, boy!  Look lively.  Into the car."

      Keen to get her home quickly, Paul helped to lift her right leg into the car.  It felt strange, surprisingly light, yet hard and inflexible.

      "There aren't many men who've done that," Celia nodded gratefully.

      "There aren't many young ladies I'd do it for either.  Now, are you fit enough to travel?"

      There was very little traffic heading north.  Soon they were back in the outskirts of London, and Celia was feeling much more restrained.

      "Sorry if I got a bit silly back there," she apologised as they were nearly home.  "It was the wine, not me."

      "It was good to hear you in a light-hearted mood," Paul replied.

      "Light-headed, you mean!  I hope I didn't let you down back there.  They are your clients, after all."

      Before making any further comment, Paul slowed the car and pulled in to the kerb.

      "Why are we stopping?" she asked.  "Is this where you park?  Do we have to walk the rest of the way?"

      "Of course not.  But I've something serious to say before we reach the house, and this seems as good a spot as any."

      "I know.  You want to tell me off for embarrassing you with my silly talk.  I really am sorry."

      Paul leaned across and put his left arm across her shoulder.

      "Celia, my dear friend, don't be sorry for anything.  Everything you did and every word you said tonight was just fine.  It was a lovely evening, made infinitely more special by you.  I do however have one word of caution.  Don't talk too much when we get indoors.  If your mother thinks I've been leading you astray by giving you too much wine, I'll be out on my ear first thing in the morning.  But I have had a truly memorable evening, and it's all thanks to you, my love.  So you'll be good, please?  For my sake?"

      In a sudden overwhelming burst of remorse, Celia flung her arms around Paul and gave him a rewarding kiss.  Perhaps they had both secretly hoped the evening would end with a kiss, but Celia doubted if Paul would take unfair advantage of his vulnerable companion, while she never imagined herself brave enough to make the first move.  Yet now, quite suddenly and naturally, it had happened, as if her guardian angel had meant it to be.

      "Thank you," she whispered.  "It's altogether been a marvellous day."

      Paul returned his hands to the wheel.  "I agree.  But Big Ben will soon be chiming eleven, and we must finish our journey.  One final question.  Will you come out with me again?"

      "I'd love to."

      "That's a promise?"

      "A promise."

      They drove in silent satisfaction back to the house and Paul helped Celia out of the car.  Indoors they found Florence still downstairs in her dressing-gown, listening to the radio.

      "Here she is," Paul announced, "safe and unharmed.  Now I have to go and park.  I'll be about twenty minutes, but please don't wait up for me if you're ready for bed.  I can find my own way in.  If I don't see you again before the morning, good night, both of you, and sleep well."

      With a cautionary glance at Celia he set off to find an all-night garage.

      "Well, my pet," asked Florence, "how was it?"

      Celia nodded wearily.  "Lovely."

      "Where did you go?"

      "Down into Sussex, I think - you must ask Paul.  It was a lovely meal in a wonderful old roadside inn that he designed.  You must go and see it."

      "If he designed it, it can't be that old, surely?"

      "But that's the incredible part," Celia continued excitedly.  "It is brand new, yet it's as though we stepped back two hundred years and found it just as new then.  It's beautiful."

      "And how was Edward's office?"

      "That was lovely too.  Oh, I've never had such a marvellous time."

      Overcome with confusion she staggered into her mother's arms and allowed her tears to flow freely.  After five minutes of mutual support, they both went slowly and silently up the stairs, arm in arm.

      When Paul returned twenty minutes later and called a soft "Good night" on the landing, there was no reply.  Celia was already asleep.  And beside her bed, in a small pot of water, stood a slender red rose, even more precious to her than the one downstairs.

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Except where specifically noted, all music and stories on this web site are my own creations.   You may not use any of them for any purpose without written permission from me.     Copyright © 2003 Colin Johnson     All Rights Reserved.