Florence came through the front door just in time to see Celia's frantic scramble up the stairs.  She turned at once to face Paul.

      "What is the matter with everyone this evening?  Now Celia's gone flying upstairs?  She'll do that sprained ankle no good at all."

      Paul kept repeating how it was all his fault, and that he needed to go and pack his bags, but Florence decided to speak her mind.

      "Paul, it's time I asked you a straight question.  I thought at first Robin or Celia had upset you, but now I feel it's you who've been upsetting them.  Robin was fine earlier, and Celia seemed perfectly calm when I left a moment ago.  Now they've both gone chasing up to their rooms, and you're about to leave.  So would you mind telling me what's going on?  I think you owe us that much at least."

      Paul shook his head sadly.

      "I owe you much, much more.  We had a talk, Celia and I, while you were out, and I'm afraid I blurted out something very tactless to her.  Believe me, I never meant it to end this way.  I came here hoping you would all like me.  Now the very opposite has happened.  I'm truly sorry."

      Robin's face appeared over the banister rail, glowering at Paul, his eyes filled with hatred.

      "Well," Florence proclaimed her disapproval.  "In that case I'll go upstairs and talk to Celia."

      "Would you say I'm very, very sorry?"

      "Of course," said Florence, and she hurried up the stairs.

      Paul tried to ignore Robin's hostile stare.

      "You won't have to tolerate my company much longer, my friend.  I'm leaving tonight.  I'm sorry."

      "Sorry?  Sorry?  That's all I keep hearing from you.  You told her, didn't you!  You bloody well told Celia, just to ease your filthy German conscience."

      Without another word, Paul strode out of the house, slamming the front door with such force that Florence called down from the landing.

      "What on earth was that bang?  Is that Edward?"

      "No, it was Herr Hitler, off to consort with his pals in the Third Reich."

      Florence came slowly down.  "Poor Paul, he didn't make much of an impression on you, did he?"

      "Oh, he made an impression all right," Robin blazed.  "He makes a habit of leaving big impressions wherever he goes."

      "And what do you mean by that?"

      "Nothing."

      Florence sniffed.  "It's very strange.  Celia seemed quite keen on him at first, in fact last night she came home like a youngster in love.  Well, I hope one of you'll be gracious enough to tell me in your own good time."

      It wasn't long before Celia appeared, having watched from her window as Paul's tall figure went striding down the road.

      "Hallo, dear," said Florence.  "Feeling okay?"

      "Not really.  I think I'd like a strong cup of tea."

      "That's a good idea.  I expect Paul would like one too if he ever comes back to collect his belongings."

      "Is he definitely leaving tonight?"

      "Who can say?  So much for our first paying guest," she exclaimed with a despairing laugh.  "What an unmitigated disaster!  Let's hope the next lodger doesn't cause one tenth as much upheaval as Paul Muller."

      "Mother's mighty suspicious," Robin confided as Florence went to fill the kettle.  "What shall we tell her?  She's bound to keep badgering us about what went on between you and Paul just now.  You can't pretend you were arguing over tonight's crossword."

      "We had a talk, Paul and I, about the war, and what happened to us.  He meant it kindly, but he got carried away and told me something he maybe ought to have kept to himself.  Or perhaps not - oh, I don't know!"

      "He should have had more sense," said Robin.  "Stupid jack-booted know-all."

      "Now, Robin, stop that!  Put yourself in his place.  Imagine you'd been up there, dropping bombs all over a country that had no more meaning to you than a chess board.  Then imagine yourself, years later, face to face with a girl you think you've crippled and scarred for life.  What would you do?"

      "Get to hell out of any place where I wasn't welcome."

      "Yes, exactly as he's doing now.  Only Paul's more sensitive than a nut like you.  Just stop and ask yourself one question, will you - is there anything he's said or done to suggest he's not a good, kind, caring man?"

      Robin considered this for a moment.

      "Well then," she said, her point made.  "So what else did he tell you?"

      "It was when I mentioned Dad's practice, and how Dad wanted both boys to join him when we were old enough.  Somehow the subject got onto the war, and what London looked like from up there, all picturesque in the moonlight.  Then he mentioned the Thames gleaming like a silver ribbon, and oil tanks leaping into flames.  That's when I knew.  They blew up the same night he chose to flatten our house."

      "Robin, oil tanks and refineries got blown up every week, right along the estuary.  Our house was flattened only once, and it certainly wasn't of Paul's choosing, be fair.  Why is he so certain it was the same night?"

      "You're saying we may have got it wrong?"

      "Robin, I don't care whether we are right or wrong.  What matters is that Paul may have got it wrong.  For the love of Jesus Christ, how do you think he's feeling at this very moment, wandering the streets alone?  He's got no family, no-one in the world he can turn to, and it's unlikely he'll want to confront Edward.  Right now, Paul's in more need of a comforting friend than anyone else I know."

      "But does it matter whether it was him or some other devil?  They all share the same guilt."

      "Guilt?  Maybe they do.  Perhaps we all do.  David as well, why not?  But don't you think Paul would feel one hell of a lot happier if he knew it was some other blighter's bomb that got us, and not his?"

      They were interrupted by a long ring at the front door.  "That'll be him now, back for his luggage."

      Rather than face Paul again, Robin headed for the stairs.  Celia went to answer the door, and saw the solid frame of Uncle Edward standing grim-faced in the porch.

      "Hallo, my dear," he sighed.  "Where's your mother?"

      "She's in the kitchen."

      "Right!  And Celia, see that we're not disturbed for at least ten minutes, there's a good girl."

      With a cautionary nod, Edward disappeared into the kitchen.  Celia went outside and wandered up and down the road.  She would willingly have walked five miles to find Paul, stick or no stick, but she didn't know which way to go.  Eventually she returned to the house and sat wearily in the very chair where Paul had sobbed his heart out.

      Why, oh why did she have to kick him so hard when he was only trying to be kind?  She knew why, of course.  Robbed of her feminine dignity, and finding herself humiliated in Paul's presence, Celia had been seized by a moment of sheer blind panic.

      Now calmer, she realised her only fear had been based on vanity.  She couldn't bear the thought of any man seeing the upper reaches of her leg - yet she'd deliberately worn a short dress, naively believing it would make her more attractive to Paul.

      Poor Paul!  And damn her vanity!  If she'd treated his plight with more compassion, he'd be sitting there now.  If only that door bell would ring again.  And what was their latest visitor saying to Florence?

      Celia could hear nothing behind the closed kitchen door, and she had no wish to eavesdrop, especially having been ordered to give them both a moment of privacy.  But she was curious enough to wander to the window, where she saw her mother and Edward standing at the bottom of the garden, engaged in what looked like a serious argument.  Perhaps, if she opened the frame just a few inches, purely for a little fresh air?

      "You knew this might happen," she heard Florence's anger, "you can't deny it, and I won't let you.  Now it's all boiled over and everyone in this house seems to have upset everybody else.  Why did you have to bring him here?"

      "My dear, he needed a home.  You wanted to give him one, and I wanted him to come here.  I still say I did the right thing."

      "I'm not so sure.  We've had Robin in a sullen mood ever since the man arrived;  there's Celia walking on air like a princess one minute, thrown into a pit of despair the next, and I honestly don't know whether I'm coming or going.  Now Paul's fled the house as if it's haunted by demons."

      "And for him perhaps it is.  Look, my dear girl, there's no need to get worked up.  I admit I'm largely to blame, and if I'd been honest from the start, this might never have happened, though I still say, good may yet come of it."

      "In God's name, how?" she fought back.  "He's handed me rent for the next two weeks.  Somehow I've got to repay it, but I've already spent it trying to make his room more acceptable.  I can't keep the money, Edward, it wouldn't be right, not when he's been here barely a fortnight."

      "Flossie, my love, stop fretting and calm down.  I want you to listen, and you won't take in a word I'm saying if you're all worked up about money.  I don't suppose you've got a bottle of sherry in the house?"

      "I doubt it.  How on earth can sherry solve things?"

      "A glass of sherry generally encourages folk to sit down and relax, Florence, and that's exactly what I now want you to do."

      "Oh dear!  Maybe there is some somewhere, but I still don't see how it'll help.  My house has been turned upside down this evening.  I've tried to ignore it, I've tried to prevent it, I've tried to find out why.  But with Celia out of a job, and Paul expecting more than I can give him..."

      Edward grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her into his arms.

      "Flossie, dear, stop it.  That simply isn't true, and I should know, I work with the boy.  I lunch with him every day and we talk, so I know what's been going on, and you can take it from me, Paul's enjoyed every minute of his time with you.  You've looked after him like a mother, just as I said you would.  He took Celia out last night, and he's talked of little else all day.  He does find your Robin a bit of a mystery, but then frankly so do I.  And you?  He has the greatest respect for you, and again I say, so do I.  So let's go indoors and hunt for that bottle of sherry."

      Celia closed the window and turned to see Robin standing behind her, reading an almanac.

      "I've been trying to look up the phases of the moon," he said, "but it doesn't show details for 1942."

      Florence came to join them, happy at least that her own children seemed to be in co-operative harmony.

      "We're checking to see if there was a full moon the night our house was bombed," Robin explained.

      "You see?" declared Florence, waving a forefinger at Edward.  "This whole sorry business is linked to the war, and Paul's German ancestry."

      Edward seemed to have a one-track mind.  "Florence, my love, where might I find that sherry?"

      "Oh, for goodness' sake, Edward, I don't know."

      "I do," said Celia.  "I saw some in the sideboard earlier, only don't ask me to reach for it.  I've done enough grovelling for one day."

      "Then may I make a suggestion?" said Edward, getting down on his knees.  "We know that whatever took place this evening was connected with German bombs and the second world war.  It was inevitable, once you'd got over the formality of being polite to Paul - in fact I'd say the topic's been hanging in the air for days, like an explosive gas, waiting for some young spark to ignite it.  But there are some serious things I need to tell you all that may put a very different slant on the story.  And here, Florence, as your observant daughter noted, is a bottle of sherry."

      "I know," she replied defensively.  "I happened to win it in a raffle a few months ago.  I was saving it for a special occasion."

      "Then let's make this a special occasion."

      "You can't make an occasion special at two minutes' notice, Edward, just by saying 'I pronounce this a special occasion'."

      "Florence, love, you're too overwrought to hear what I've been saying.  I said a moment ago that I should have been more honest, and that it's time I got certain things off my chest.  I guessed all along, despite your essentially loving nature, you'd find it hard to accept into your midst a young man who fought the war on the wrong side.  And let's not deny it.  Paul was on the other side, for one simple reason.  Those were the cards he was dealt.  He didn't say on his nineteenth birthday, 'Hey, let's go and bomb London!'  He did what all young men had to do, he fought for his country.  Reluctantly yet nobly, Paul did his duty.  Any problem so far?  Anyone feel he should have refused, and allowed himself to be shot as a spineless traitor?  Did he or did he not do what he ought to have done, just as David did for our side?  I'd like a show of hands please."

      Mesmerised by Edward's strange court of enquiry, all three solemnly raised their hands.

      "Good.  That's one point we're unanimous on."

      "Edward," asked Florence as a hint of suspicion dawned, "why are you so ready to defend Paul?"

      "Defend him, Florence?  You talk as if he's committed a crime.  I work with him, remember?  I've known him thirty-odd years.  And he's not here right now to 'defend' himself.  Now I want another show of hands.  How many of you did not get on well with Paul?"

      Robin raised a solitary hand, and lowered it at once.

      "All right, Robin.  I appreciate the honesty.  What did Paul do to annoy you?"

      "Well," Robin began, despite Celia's accusing glare, "for a start he's too damned polite.  Yes, Mrs. Moss, no Mrs. Moss, three bags full, Mrs. Moss!"

      "Fine, old chap, but that was done to impress your mother, not to irritate you.  He wanted to make a good impression here.  He wanted to be liked - even though he was only a filthy German."

      "I don't mind him being German," Robin protested at once.  "And he certainly wasn't filthy, quite the opposite.  Always dashing upstairs to wash his hands before meals."

      "So, if we can persuade him to come back and keep his hands nice and grimy whenever there's food around, you'll be happier?"

      "Okay," said Robin, raising both arms in surrender.  "You win."

      "Fine, Robin!  So we'll allow him to have clean hands.  What else has he done wrong?"

      "Well," Robin went on, uncertain of his ground.  "He does seem to have been in the wrong place in 1942."

      Celia took over.  "What Robin means is - it looks as though Paul was up above us in a German bomber the night our house was destroyed."

      "Aha!" exclaimed Edward, with a watchful eye on Florence.  "So our Paul Muller was the villain who dive-bombed your Romford home."

      "We don't know that he did," admitted Robin.

      "But what's important," Celia added, "is that Paul thinks he did."

      "Then we'd better try and prove it, one way or the other.  Why do you think he's the guilty bomber?"

      "He destroyed some oil tanks down by the river the same night," Robin explained.  "He admits aiming a bomb at a railway, and we did have a line right at the bottom of the garden."

      "Good.  Any other clues?"

      "He talked about the moon," Robin continued, "seeing the Thames shining below - something about a silver ribbon.  He said he watched a column of smoke rising to obscure the full moon as they flew back home."

      "Home?" Edward exclaimed scornfully.  "Where to?  Wales?  Ireland?  Where did you go to school?  Florence, my dear, sorry to ask a difficult question, but precisely what time was it when the bomb fell?"

      "We'd only just gone to bed," she said.  "Shortly after eleven o'clock."

      "Thank you.  And whoever heard of a full moon in the western sky at eleven o'clock?"

      "Actually," Florence added quietly, "the moon wasn't full, quite the opposite.  There was only the thinnest crescent of a new moon the night we were bombed."

      "How do you know?" asked Celia.  "Are you certain?"

      "My dear, if ever you lose a husband - and I pray to God you never do - but if it should ever happen I guarantee you'll never forget your last precious moments together."

      Smiling bravely at Edward she continued:

      "Shortly before the siren went, Tom held me in his arms for the last time.  He told me he'd just seen the new moon through a pane of glass - said he hoped it didn't mean bad luck."

      Her words had trailed to nothing, but they all understood.

      "Oh Mum," Celia said at last.  "You never told us that before."

      Florence looked despairingly at her.  "No, my pet.  Certain memories are far too delicate to be shared, even with you."

      She reached out to fondle Celia's hair, then sought Edward's embrace.

      "Well," Edward sighed.  "Having cleared up that little drama, may we proceed with two other issues?  Celia, why don't you see if you can find four sherry glasses?"

      "I'll do it," Robin volunteered.  Florence looked up in surprise as Robin darted willingly to the kitchen and was back within seconds.

      "Good lad," said Edward.  "There's hope for the Empire yet.  Now about this other little matter I need to talk about, though I should warn you - your respectable Uncle Edward may not end up smelling of roses.  Anyway - before I met my dear Dottie I had my youthful eye on several other good ladies in my group, one of whom is standing beside me right now."

      "I knew it!" murmured Robin.  "We all know what's coming next."

      "No, you don't," said Edward, "so be a good lad and listen to the old man.  You see, I was a shy chap in those days, very reticent about speaking my mind to ladies.  Take this good woman, for instance.  I knew her quite a few years before Tom Moss came bounding into her young life.  In fact it's well within the realms of possibility I might have dated her myself if I hadn't been so timid.  But I was.  And regrettably, I didn't."

      "No, you had your saucy eye on Betty Anderson," Florence reminded him, "and I understand she found you a lot less shy and reticent than I did.  You could be quite bold when the fancy took you, Teddy, and I'm not entirely sure you left that girl's virtue intact."

      "I can only plead guilty, my dear, and hope that thirty-odd years later I may be forgiven."

      She smiled.  "Well, you do have other endearing qualities."

      "Thank you.  And to restrain your son from further fidgeting, could I ask, Florence, whether my qualities are still endearing enough for you to consider marrying me?"

      Robin and Celia both gave a spontaneous round of applause.

      "Well," declared Edward, "I seem to have scored at least two out of three."

      Florence blushed.  "I never thought you'd ask me in front of the children, Edward."

      "They're hardly children, dear.  None of us are."

      All three sat gazing at Florence, waiting for an answer.  Celia knew instinctively what it would be, but knew too that it wouldn't be revealed with immodest haste.  Florence would keep Edward waiting, just for a while.

      "It's certainly an intriguing idea," she said at last.  "You've quite caught me off balance.  May I have a little time to collect my thoughts?"

      "Of course, though I think perhaps we should fill our glasses, and make a toast to a favourable reply."

      "Paul should be here to share this," exclaimed Celia.  "Don't forget, he's still wandering around somewhere, feeling as miserable as a man can be."

      "Ah, yes," said Edward.  "There remains the subject of Paul and his welcome here.  And before Florence makes up her mind about the future, I think I ought to come clean as to why I wanted you all to meet Paul."

      "You wanted us to realise some Germans can be very nice," Celia volunteered.

      "You wanted us to have the kind of lodger who'd make our lives more exciting," Florence added.  "Oh, Edward, he's certainly done that."

      "Especially Celia's," Robin felt obliged to add.

      "All right.  Yes, it did cross my mind that Celia might find Paul an entertaining companion.  Any other bright ideas?"

      "But of course," breathed Florence, as a subconscious realisation slowly surfaced in her mind.  "Of course, yes!  It all fits now."

      "Aha!  I think someone's hit the jackpot.  And does this last piece of jig-saw puzzle put me firmly in the dog-house?"

      "Well, Teddy - it did happen a long time ago."

      Celia was growing impatient.  "What are you two talking about?"

      "We're discussing my case for the defence," Edward went on.  "When I realised all those years ago that I couldn't have Florence as the first Mrs. Rustington, I got a bit light-headed.  I knew several other girls in our group, and one of them was suffering a broken love affair of her own.  Soft-hearted boy that I was, I took her off to a hotel for a reckless evening of wine and song.  My honest intention, I swear, was to comfort and console her, to console both of us in fact.  I never intended it should lead to anything ungentlemanly.  I was, after all, a very shy boy.  Still am.  But the wine flowed freely, and we talked long into the night and realised we'd both missed the last bus home.  So we booked a room for the night.  They had only one.  Or to be honest, I could only afford one.  Anyway, this girl and I spent the night together in a state of blissful but irresponsible inebriation.  Two days later she'd patched things up with her former boyfriend, and they got married before they could have any more rows."

      "Are we talking about Betty Anderson?" asked Celia.

      Edward nodded.  "Betty Anderson, who changed her mind and married some foreign chap in preference to that lovable British Rustington fellow.  We kept it our secret, she and I.  It was very necessary in those days.  And surprise, surprise, barely nine months after their honeymoon, they had a little son.  His father was convinced the lad came a few days early.  Betty and I knew he was a week overdue.  But he was a handsome little chap.  Fair haired, like his mother.  We never told anyone.  Not a living soul.  Not until today."

      "This little lad would be about thirty-three," observed Robin.

      Edward nodded.

      "And did I have dinner with him last night?" Celia asked, bright-eyed.

      "He's talked of little else all day."

      "I knew it," said Florence, nodding wisely to herself.  "It's haunted me for days, seeing that Betty Anderson look in his face, and not being able to place it.  But Edward, why didn't you tell us Paul's your son?"

      "Because he doesn't know.  I told you, I'm a shy sort of chap.  I couldn't tell him a shocking thing like that, not after thirty-three years."

      "Oh, no, please," cried Celia suddenly.  "Does that mean if you marry Mum he'll become my brother?"

      "He can never be your brother, my dear," Edward assured her.  "And besides, your mother may decide not to marry me after hearing this."

      "Would you want Paul to find out?"

      "Celia my dear, I've been on the point of telling him a hundred times, ever since he first contacted me after the war.  I was so afraid he wouldn't be able to trace me, that he wouldn't have my address or wouldn't want to visit England after the way he was treated here.  But I guess he has some sort of homing instinct.  Technically, of course, he is German - that is where he was born.  But his heart belongs in England, and I know a part of him will always belong here beneath this waistcoat."

      "You dirty old man!" Robin exploded with a broad grin on his face.

      "Thanks, Robin!  Just what I wanted to hear.  You see, this lad's got no inhibitions at all.  I love him."

      "Well, I think I want Paul to know," Celia decided.

      "Maybe, one day," said Edward.  "Yes, I'd like him to know, as long as the news doesn't upset him.  But I can hardly say anything now, not after all these years, it'd sound ridiculous."

      "Uncle Edward," Celia asked, "remember thirteen years ago you came to see me in the hospital the day after the bomb, when my face felt as if it was tangled up in a mass of barbed wire, and I couldn't eat or speak?"

      "I remember it well, my dear.  Why?"

      "Because you were so kind.  You knew we'd lost Daddy and David, but you didn't want me to know too soon or be upset.  You also knew my leg was gone and that I needed to be told.  So you took on the task of telling me yourself."

      "It was a job I didn't relish, my dear, but I was glad afterwards."

      "Did I seem upset?"

      "No, my love," he smiled his admiration.  "You took it very well."

      "Yes, and do you know why?  It's because you knew exactly what to say, and how to say it.  You had all the right words, and I could still smell your nice pipe even though you weren't allowed to smoke it in the ward.  So I can't believe now that you're afraid to tell Paul you're his real father."

      "Ah, but I'm too personally involved.  You can't just say to a lad you've known for thirty years - 'Oh, by the way, I'm your Dad - sorry I forgot to mention it earlier!'"

      "Would you trust me to tell him?" Celia asked.

      "If you'd like to, my dear, yes, I would."

      "Only, you see, he thinks he's got no-one.  I'd like him to know he's wrong.  There's so much more I want him to know, if only I knew where he was.  He could be anywhere by now, doing something awful like jumping off Tower Bridge."

      Edward shook his head.  "He's nowhere near Tower Bridge.  We met outside before I arrived, and I sent him along to the Black Swan on the corner.  He may be drowning his sorrows, but that's all he's likely to drown, I promise you."

      Celia jumped up excitedly.  "Will he be there now?"

      "I certainly hope so.  I lent him five pounds and I'm expecting some of it back."

      "May I go to him?" she asked, heading for the door.  "Alone?"

      Florence gave a consenting nod.

      "Yes," Edward agreed.  "Bring him back here, and maybe we'll have at least something to celebrate this evening."

      Celia hurried down the road in long strides.  Even if she did look ungainly, she was in no mood for modesty.  She moved as quickly as possible, unable to bear the thought of Paul being on his own.

      She reached the Black Swan - not an establishment she'd ever visited before.  Vividly she could remember walking home from the cinema years ago, when a crowd of drunken yobs came tumbling out at closing time.  Not content with nearly knocking her over, they began taunting her, calling her names like "Peg-leg".  Cries of "Where's yer parrot?" had echoed down the road as they stumbled off, imitating her walk for their own amusement.

      Now as she drew nearer and tried to walk more evenly, she realised she wasn't using her stick, nor had she needed it.  

      She opened the door and stepped bravely into the Public Bar.  Dimly lit and noisy, it reeked of stale smoke and spilled beer.  But there was no sign of Paul.

      Several over-weight men at the bar nudged one another and began giving her lecherous looks.  Their eyes passed up and down her body as though she were a model in a magazine.  Then as the eyes settled on her leg, the mouths opened in grins of amusement.  Celia had seen it all before and hated it, but tonight it didn't matter.  Nothing mattered except finding Paul.

      She went round to the Saloon Bar which was less smoky and much quieter.  A barman noticed her enquiring look and asked if she was searching for someone.

      "Yes, a tall man," she asked, "with straight blond hair and a slightly foreign accent."

      "Not that I recall, love, why?  Time he came home, is it?"

      He laughed loudly to amuse the others.

      "Something like that," she responded vaguely.  "Thanks anyway.  He probably went on somewhere else."

      She thought of walking to another pub at the far end of the shopping parade.  It was a long way, and in this area of South London, late at night and without her stick, it could have been most unwise.

      No, Paul must be here, she thought.  Otherwise Edward wouldn't have let her come out on her own.  Again she passed the Public Bar and gave it a more thorough search, walking this time past the fat characters down to the far end.

      There he sat, alone, with his back to the world, staring at a blank wall.

      Celia longed to rush over to him, but she restrained herself.  She approached quietly and sat at his table.  He looked up with a guilty start, and then relaxed on seeing her radiant smile.

      "This is no place for a chap like you, Paul.  Are you all right?"

      He shook his head sadly.  Celia clasped his hands at once.

      "Paul, my dear, it's okay.  I came to tell you we've sorted things out.  It wasn't you up there, Paul, it couldn't have been.  Remember me saying how dark it was?  The raid you described must have been shortly before dawn, whereas in our case we'd only just gone to bed, I told you.  We didn't stop to think, did we?"

      "It still happened though.  It could very easily have been me.  If it wasn't your family, I must have caused just as much hurt to someone else."

      "We know," she comforted him, "and we understand.  That's what makes wars so senseless, squandering millions every week to destroy not only people, but priceless architecture.  But Paul, my love, it's stopped now.  We've come to our senses.  We can't say 'no harm done', because harm has been done.  I hate what's happened to me, but we've all suffered - you more than most.  At least I've still got Mum and Robin, and guess what - it looks as if this crisis has finally brought Edward out of the closet.  He's found a bottle of sherry and he's sitting at our table right now, waiting for Florence to agree she'll marry him.  Isn't that great?  I very much want you to be there when she says Yes."

      "Is that the answer she'll give?"

      "If it isn't, it's because the rest of us drove her potty this evening and she's finally lost all her marbles."

      Paul looked up, still very humble and subdued.

      "I wanted so much to help you," he said.  "especially when you fell.  I've never felt like that before in my whole life, not about anyone else."

      "And all I could do was to lash out at you," she said ruefully.  "But that wasn't me, Paul, it was the sheer bloody frustration of feeling so damned helpless and unladylike whenever that happens.  I can only say I'm truly sorry.  I hope I didn't hurt you too much."

      "Not the blow.  But the thought of not seeing you again.  I knew last night you'd become very important to me.  And after this evening, I'm certain.  I do so want to kiss you again, but it's more than our lives are worth to risk that in here!"

      "Too right," she laughed.  "Never in a million years did I ever think I'd come into a rotten hole like this.  Why didn't you use the other bar?  It's much quieter."

      "I didn't want quiet, I wanted noise and stink, to punish myself, to wallow in a bit of London's mire."

      "Sackcloth and ashes, eh?  I'd say you chose the right place.  Come on, my friend.  I'll race you back to the house!"

      "You?"

      "Think I can't?  Right now I feel so good I reckon I could fly, even without an aeroplane!"

      "Okay," he laughed.  "Why not?  You're on!"

      Arm in arm, they emerged from the pub and began walking, faster and faster up the road.

      "Hold me tight," Celia cried for joy, "I mean it.  I need to run for sheer joy, or I'll burst!"

      With Paul's arm around her waist, they began running together up the road as fast as Celia could manage, both adopting the same skip and double hop in perfect synchronisation.  Twice Celia almost tripped, but Paul held her securely until all too soon they'd reached the front door, bubbling with exhilarating laughter.

      Several minutes later they went indoors, but not before sharing a wonderful moment of privacy on the darkened doorstep.

      They stepped inside to a round of applause from the others.  A festive feeling filled the air, and Florence was setting the table for dinner.

      "I must be going crazy," said Celia.  "Didn't we have dinner two hours ago?"

      "We did," Florence replied, "but this silly man has just announced he hasn't eaten this evening.  He was on the point of sitting down to a meal in his lonely kitchen when I phoned him about all the hoo-ha we had earlier.  I'm now about to feed him, and we're all going to share a little something to keep him company.  Can you both manage a light snack?"

      "Paul looks as if he's already enjoyed something rather delicious," Edward commented dryly, and Celia tactfully wiped a smear of lipstick from his chin.

      "Now if that had been on his cheek," Edward went on, "I'd have assumed someone just kissed him, but it seems to be all round his mouth.  He always was a messy eater."

      "Oh, Edward, stop it - leave the poor boy alone," cried Florence.  "If you want to be useful, come and help me in the kitchen."

      Edward dutifully followed Florence into the tiny kitchen, making sure they closed the door behind them.

      Paul faced Robin a little warily.  "I hope we're friends again, Robin?  No more problems about my former deeds?"

      Robin manfully shook him by the hand, then backed out of the room.

      "Yes, well, I'm sure you two still have plenty to talk about and so on, so I'll disappear to my lonely little room.  Yell when the grub appears!  Or rather, please announce when the second sitting of dinner is about to be served."

      He turned and thundered upstairs, leaving Celia and Paul facing each other.

      "Has anyone ever told you you're an unbelievably attractive girl?"

      She shook her head.  "Not since last night."

      "Good.  I wouldn't want anyone else invading my territory."

      "I hardly think that's likely."

      "I mean it, you are incredibly pretty.  Lots of men would agree with me."

      "I'm not so pretty elsewhere," she said quietly.

      "That isn't going to bother me," he vowed, guiding her to the settee.  "You'll just have to help me, that's all.  If there are subjects you don't like to talk about, or things you don't want me to see, just tell me."

      "Don't worry, Paul.  It'll all come naturally in time, I know it will."

      "I was thinking back there in the pub," he said.  "There is something I'd very much like you to help me with.  I know that the way I talk isn't perfect English.  I sound like a foreigner, but I don't want to, I want to sound as English as you.  Do you think that can ever be possible?"

      "If that's want you want, Paul, then we'll make it possible.  But you should realise, I like you just the way you are.  I'm not looking for any improvements.  I'm not perfect either, God knows."

      "Perfect is when we're happy together, and you seem pretty perfect to me at this moment."

      Celia glanced toward the closed kitchen door and smiled.

      "I wonder what those two in the kitchen are talking about?"

      "Probably staring closely at each other and saying 'I wonder what those youngsters in the living-room are talking about.'"

      "And what are we talking about?"

      "Those two in the kitchen," they said both together.

      "That's one of Edward's tricks," Celia laughed, "saying something that makes you finish his sentence for him.  How do you get on with Edward?  Is he a good man to work for?"

      "The best.  He's more than a boss, more than a business partner, he's like a big cuddly Uncle.  We get on incredibly well.  I suppose it's because I've known him for as long as I can remember.  What was your father like, or is that one of those touchy subjects?"

      "Of course not.  Daddy was always busy.  He travelled a lot until they started rationing petrol.  Edward can tell you plenty about him.  The three of them went around together up in Bedford."

      "Three?"

      "Yes, with another friend called Jumbo Morris.  All three went to Bedford School."

      "I've heard of Bedford.  That's where my mother trained to become a teacher.  Her best subjects were languages, which was lucky.  To hear her speak, you'd never know she wasn't born in Germany."

      "And you want to speak English as though you had been born and brought up here too.  In which county?  'Ave yer coom from up north, like?" she asked in a strong Yorkshire accent, "or are yew from down Zummerzet way, my dear?"

      "Mother's home town was Bristol.  How does that go?"

      Celia offered him a passable Bristolian accent and Paul was delighted.

      "That's wonderful.  You sound so much like her."

      "Do you miss her very much?  More than you miss your father?"

      "Oh, much more.  I know we're taught to honour our parents, but it wasn't easy.  He was a hard man.  There wasn't any affection between us.  Mum sort of made up for it when I was young, and we became very close.  But we drifted apart as the war heated up.  Should I say Heated up or Hotted up?"

      "How about Intensified?" she grinned, and he whispered: "Chicken!" just as the kitchen door opened and Florence strode into the room with a large meat pie, followed by a dutiful Edward carrying vegetables.

      "Grab me two mats off the sideboard, would you, dear?"

      Paul leapt up and had mats on the table in less than four seconds.  Florence studied his face with renewed fascination.

      "Amazing!" she said.  "There's no mistaking it.  I knew your mother, years ago.  Would someone call Robin for me?"

      Paul then raced up the stairs, two at a time, in complete silence.

      "You see," said Celia, "it can be done gracefully if you know how.  I'm dying to know something else too," she whispered as Edward returned to the kitchen.  "Are you going to accept or not?"

      "You'll just have to wait and see, like everybody else," Florence responded royally.

      "Paul and I were talking about fathers just now.  He didn't get on at all well with his.  He misses his mother a lot, and now feels very close to Edward.  I've simply got to tell him when I get the chance."

      "Well, make sure you handle it with more delicacy than your earlier fiasco.  My goodness, Paul, you certainly move fast," she added as Paul came nimbly down the stairs.

      "So can Celia.  You should have seen how we both ran back from the Black Swan."

      "It's true," Celia confirmed.  "I held onto Paul tight as could be, and we both ran.  I mean it, we really did run.  It was great!"

      Edward noticed her excitement as he brought in the gravy boat.

      "I must say, something has certainly perked up that girl's spirits in the last half hour, Florence.  Whatever it is, I recommend she continue the treatment.  It's doing her a world of good."

      The five sat down to a second evening meal with all the atmosphere of a festive party.  There was nothing officially to celebrate, not yet, but from the way Florence and Edward kept leaning towards each other, and the constant glances exchanged between Paul and Celia, it was clear that sherry wasn't the only warming influence.

      "I'd like to take Celia to the office again," Paul suggested, catching Edward's eye.  "Maybe tomorrow afternoon, and again on Saturday.  There's a special project I think she might like to practice on.  You know the one I mean - and it'll give her a chance to discover how she feels about her future and its possibilities."  He turned to Florence.  "Would that be all right, borrowing your daughter again?"

      "I suggest you ask Celia.  She's the one you're making plans for."

      "Plans, eh?" grunted Edward.  "It's all right for some.  I wonder when I can start making a few plans of my own."

      Privately beneath the table, four unseen hands reached out to offer silent reassurance to their respective partners.

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