In the weeks that followed, whenever he had time to give her his personal attention, Celia would accompany Paul to his office where she practiced in some quiet corner on a spare drawing board.  She was soon able to do a variety of useful jobs - tracing simple diagrams, even typing some of Paul's letters if Mrs. Howard was particularly busy.

      One Saturday morning when the place was otherwise deserted, Paul led her into his private office where she saw on his board a series of neat plans and elevations.  With a mysterious smile, Paul opened a shallow drawer and took out a clean sheet of blue linen.  He then produced a small sketch which he pinned onto the board, securing the smooth linen on top of it.

      "Now, young lady," he said, "we have here the plans of a modest dwelling.  You may recognise the outline - you were working on part of it last week.  I've now more or less finalised it, and I've also drawn an artist's impression to give the owner a fair idea of what it'll look like."

      Celia studied it carefully, a fine ink drawing of a cosy bungalow as viewed from the road, surrounded by gardens, shrubs and trees.

      "Very nice," she agreed.  "Where is it?"

      "Nowhere until it's built.  But you've had a fair bit of practice now, and I want you to make a perfect copy of this onto blue linen.  These four drawings are called elevations and the fifth one is a plan."

      Celia nodded intelligently, revelling in Paul's attentiveness.

      "Two points to note," he continued.  "First, trace it as accurately as you can.  Then when you've done it, tell me if you think of any improvements or can offer any suggestions.  I'll give you as much help as you need, but I want YOU to do it.  Study it carefully, and tell me when you're ready to go ahead."

      "I don't know if I can yet."

      "You didn't know whether you could still run till we tried it."

      "All right," she said, "if you promise not to laugh at my mistakes.  Can I just ask one thing though?  Wouldn't it be quicker to photocopy it?"

      "My love, this is an exercise.  By spending time on it, you will study it in detail and know every inch of the place by the time you've finished.  Don't be afraid of spoiling good linen - there's plenty more, within reason.  Try to remember, I've still got great faith in you, sweetheart.  Trust me."

      Celia sat on a stool and took up the fine pen, which looked more like a tiny pair of pliers.  She slid the T-square into position and began, subconsciously holding her breath, with her tongue slightly visible.

      "You are allowed to breathe," Paul said kindly.  "Also, you might be a little more comfortable if we alter things slightly."

      Celia stood down while he made adjustments to the stool.

      "Now," he said, "sit more to the side and put that funny right leg of yours straight onto the floor.  Is that better?"

      It was, and she gave him a fleeting smile.

      "Good.  Do you want me to stand and watch, or may I leave you while I look through this morning's post?"

      "I'll be okay," she assured him.

      Twenty minutes later, she'd finished tracing the horizontal lines, and was ready to tackle the verticals and diagonals.  Paul had already showed her how to use the adjustable set squares, and she pressed on with meticulous care.  Throughout the morning Paul kept a watchful eye on her progress.

      The task took far longer than Celia anticipated, and by the time she'd completed the ground plan and two elevations, she was surprised to find it was already lunch time.  She felt that Paul might be disappointed, but he assured her she'd done a fair days' work.

      "You've seen enough detail to decide what you think of the bungalow," he said.  "Now you'd better sign your name in the corner, so Mrs. Howard will know whose work it is.  You can finish it next time you come.  Do you like it?"

      "It's cute," she nodded.  "And practical too.  I like the idea of the kitchen being near the front without being visible from the road.  And that extra cloakroom is good for visitors.   Who's going to live in it?"

      "I can't be entirely certain yet - there are still one or two details to be finalized.  But I do know who'll own half of it."

      Celia was confused.  "Are you saying that half is for one person and half for somebody else?"

      "Well," he said, "it's designed for a married couple.  And shall I let you in on a secret?  It's where I plan to live when I get married."

      "You're getting married?" she gasped.

      "Why not?" he replied with a pleasant smile.  "Lots of people get married; it's quite a  popular thing to do.  And when my turn comes, I'd like to live in that bungalow."

      "Isn't it a bit small?"

      "Maybe, but homes have to be affordable.  I'd design something three times the size if I had three times the money.  But I reckon it's a nice little nest to start with, don't you?"

      "Yes, if it ends up looking like this," she agreed, gazing at the artist's impression through half-closed eyes.

      "But what no-one knows yet is where I'm going to build it, or who'll be sharing it with me."

      "Paul, I'm confused.  You said you were getting married."

      "I hope to one day, because I have met someone I'd very much like to marry.  Maybe soon I'll get around to asking her."

      Celia felt deflated.  "Well, whoever it's for, Paul, it's a nice little home.  What do I do with this artist's impression?  I like it.  It's very neatly done."

      Paul rolled up the picture and put it into a cardboard tube.

      "I suggest you take it home," he said.  "Pin it on your bedroom wall, and study it every day until you're confident it's the kind of house you'd like to live in.  When you're quite certain about that, let me know."

      Celia looked searchingly into Paul's eyes.  "Paul, sorry - am I being thick?"

      "Not thick, my love.  Wisely cautious.  We've both got to be sure, you see.  You're a very vulnerable person, and I couldn't let anything else go wrong in your life.  So we've both got to be absolutely certain."

      "You'd like me to live here?" she repeated, staring at the board, still not certain of what Paul was saying.

      "Miss Moss, sweetheart, simple child, look at me."

      Celia regarded him intently.

      "Little bungalow," he explained, "affordable, comfortable, just big enough for two people in love."

      She kept looking at him and their faces drew closer together, Paul's voice becoming softer and more hypnotic.

      "We build it, you and I, whenever and wherever we like, though I doubt if it'll fit onto the end of Harrow Street."

      Celia gulped.  "You mean - somewhere further south - in Sussex perhaps?"

      "Wherever we like, whenever we're ready," he whispered.

      Their lips touched, lightly at first.  Then, with all the time in the world, their mouths opened and they began to press firmly together, Celia putting her arms around Paul's neck, and nearly losing her balance as she tried to get down from the high stool.  Luckily his strong arms were there to support her.

      "Did you nearly fall there," he asked.

      She nodded dreamily.  "I'm still falling," she said, closing her eyes as he kissed her again and again.  "Falling and falling.  I do hope I land safely this time."

      It was a full five minutes before they agreed to put everything away and go home for lunch.  They locked the office and walked arm in arm to where the car was parked.  Naturally, as Celia got used to managing without her stick, Paul felt it his duty to keep his arm securely around her waist wherever they went, in case she tripped.

      Once in the car, Celia turned to face him.  She had several matters she needed to discuss, and didn't know where or how to begin.

      "Paul," she said earnestly, "before you start the engine, can we sit and talk for a minute?"

      "Of course.  Or we could find somewhere quiet for lunch and talk there if you prefer?"

      She nodded.  "That sounds a good idea.  But I warn you, Paul, there's something I think I ought to tell you, about me.  Several things, in fact.  I need to share a few secrets with you."

      "Good."

      The car windows were slightly open, and the breeze danced through Celia's hair as they headed south.  From time to time, Paul would glance towards his happy companion, and Celia did her best to look contented.  But inwardly she was becoming more and more agitated.  What she had to tell Paul might make a big difference to the way he felt.  Yet it had to be done.  Somehow she had to break the news gently, in the right way, and at the right moment.  Then there was also that other little matter to deal with too.

      They found a quiet pub on the outskirts of Croydon.  It had few customers, and only a limited menu was available.

      "The travelling public aren't expected to eat on Saturdays," Celia joked as they ordered drinks, two bags of crisps, and a pork pie.

      "Ah, but we benefit from having plenty of private space all to ourselves.  Cheer up, chicken.  What's on your mind?"

      "Paul," she began as they sat in a quiet corner, "this is serious.  You need to be told something else about me, something very important.  What I've got to say doesn't go well with eating pork pie, but you'll have to know the facts before it's too late.  Among those beastly bricks that rained down on me that night, there was part of a broken window that could easily have killed me."

      "I'm very glad it didn't," he said, grasping her hand.  "Oh, you're trembling, my love.  Is it because of this thing you have to tell me?"

      She nodded, and looked even more worried.

      "Might it be something I already know?" he added.

      "I doubt it.  No-one else knows, except Mum.  But - well, here goes!  When that window fell on me, a long shard of glass got embedded deep in my abdomen.  They got all the pieces out, but it means - oh! heavens, Paul - it means if ever I get married, it must be to someone who isn't longing to have children of his own, because that's something I can't provide.  I'm sorry."

      She sat looking at him, her lips clenched, her eyes filling with tears, praying that he still loved her.

      "Actually," Paul said tenderly, "I already knew.  But it was told to me only in the strictest confidence by a gentleman we both know extremely well."

      Celia put her arm around him at once and nestled up close.

      "Bless his heart," she said.  "He breaks bad news so well.  I'm glad.  I'd hate to shock you more than I have to."

      She paused to sip her drink.  Was now the right moment to tell him about that other family secret?

      "Paul," she went on hesitantly, "I assume you're as fond of Edward as we are."

      "Of course.  I've known him all my life.  He's tremendous fun and he's always been very kind to me."

      "Good.  Because - well, there's something else I want to tell you.  I don't have to, Paul, not yet, but I do want to."

      "That's okay," Paul assured her.  "And don't worry.  I'm still your greatest fan."

      "No, this isn't about me.  I do hope I don't make a mess of this, Paul, and please don't hate or despise anyone if I do.  Maybe I'm not the most tactful person in the world, maybe I'm too honest.  But I'll be so happy if you're pleased about this, as pleased as I am.  I learned something very special the other day, and if we're to be close friends, we shouldn't keep secrets from each other, should we?  It's something that happened a long time ago, and I still don't know whether you're going to like it or not.  Only please do, Paul, I beg of you.  It's fine with me, if that helps.  In fact, it's more than fine, I think it's wonderful."

      "A promising start," he smiled.  "How does the ending go?"

      "How indeed!  Can I pretend to change the subject and ask something else first?  How did you get on with your father?"

      "Him?" he said with a shrug.  "I told you.  He was a difficult man.  Perhaps you'd understand better if I said he was a confirmed Nazi.  Mother didn't like that at all, but living under Hitler's regime she had enough sense to keep her mouth shut.  Unfortunately I didn't.  I once told my father what I thought of Adolf and his followers.  Dad didn't even bother to listen or try to explain his point of view.  Instead he gave me the biggest thrashing of my life.  I was just twelve years old.  I had thought honesty within a family was good, but that man taught me a sharp lesson.  From then on I vowed I'd keep my youthful opinions to myself."

      "You weren't exactly proud to have Herr Muller as your father?"

      "Proud?  That's an odd remark after what I just said.  No, of course not.  I despised the man, most of all because he was cruel to my mother.  He wouldn't tolerate anyone else's views.  He was a bigoted, narrow-minded bully."

      "Your mother was different," Celia prompted.

      The expression on Paul's face at once blossomed from a dark frown into wistful serenity.

      "Oh, she was a lamb.  So kind, and privately very understanding towards me.  We had a very special bond, Mum and I.  Nothing could destroy that, though towards the end it wasn't easy.  It was very tough for her in those final years.  She could see the conflict mounting all around her, with a husband hating almost everything she stood for.  And I had the dreadful duty of having to fight for my country, against hers.  But you would have loved Mum, Celia, and I'll tell you something else - she would have loved you."

      Further details were suspended for a moment as he halved the remaining piece of pork pie.

      "I'm glad she loved you, Paul.  You were the eldest, weren't you?"

      He laughed.  "And how!  My parents met and married barely nine months before I was born.  Any previous child would have been a miracle."

      "You don't in any way take after your German father?"

      "I should hope not," Paul insisted.  "We had absolutely nothing in common, and physically I don't resemble him either.  I'm glad about that.  I'd hate to see a carbon copy of that face in my mirror each time I shave."

      "The parent you most identified with was your mother?"

      "Always."  He picked up a piece of pie and popped it in his mouth.

      "I wonder how you'd feel, Paul, if anyone dared to suggest that Hans Muller wasn't actually your father?"

      Paul's jaws stopped moving as he paused to consider this revelation.  Then finally he swallowed his mouthful and stared intently at Celia.

      "I think," he said with narrowing eyes, "that such news would not come as a total surprise.  In fact I'd welcome knowing who my real father was."

      Then, as an irrepressible grin spread across Celia's face, he added:

      "You know, don't you."

      "It's someone very nice, believe me."

      Paul's eyes widened.  "Might it be someone who never forgot our birthdays, who came to visit me as often as he could?  Someone who recently funded me through college?"  He wagged a long finger straight under Celia's nose.  "Of course, and he knew my mother years before I was born."

      "Would this be the kind of news you can readily accept?" she asked.  "I was so afraid I might say it all wrong, Paul, blurt it out badly and spoil so much happiness for some very good and kind people."

      "It's bloody marvellous news," he shouted so loudly that even the landlord turned to smile.  "You did just fine, bless you."

      Celia blushed her relief, and explained further.

      "It seems Betty Anderson got upset over some row she had with your German father shortly before the wedding.  Young Edward did his best to comfort her - I mean, it is in his very nature to do that sort of thing.  I want you to believe, Paul, that what happened afterwards was the outcome of good intentions and true tenderness.  We both know what a kind man he is."

      Paul took her hand and grinned like a prize-winning schoolboy.

      "How long have you known this?"

      "A few weeks.  Edward said it was okay for me to tell you, provided you didn't end up despising him.  Please, please, never do that, Paul.  He's so fond of you, and you're the only son he's ever likely to have.  For over thirty years he's stood quietly in the background, protecting you and your mother from any unpleasantness."

      "Ha!" Paul suddenly roared.  "The dear, lovable old blighter, bless his British heart.  That means my real parents were both English.  And you my angel, are the nicest, most perfect lady I ever came to know and love since my mother died."

      He took her into his arms and kissed her, over and over again, while the obliging landlord turned away to polish a few empty glasses.

      "I hope," Paul added, looking furtively about him like a stage spy, and using a strong Germanic accent, "zat zis behaviour is not verboten in your English public houses?"  He gave a hearty laugh.  "If it is, then take me, please, as your personal prisoner for the rest of my life."

      "Now who's being boisterous?" she teased.  "You're more uncontrollable than I was the first time we went out together."

      "Oh, come, surely not!" he exclaimed.  "But you're right, Miss Moss.  Englishmen don't behave like this.  Not cricket, what?  You really must spend a lot more time with me, my love, and teach me how to lose this silly accent of mine.  I did enjoy hearing that Bristol accent you did, the one my Mother had.  You're like her, in so many ways.  Come on, lovely legs, it's time to run you home again."

      They skipped together across the car-park like carefree children, Paul keeping his left arm around Celia's waist all the way back to Harrow Street, where they found Edward sitting beside a large unopened bottle of Champagne.  Florence had not only consented to face the rest of her life as the second Mrs. Rustington;  they had even set a date for the wedding, her only reservation being that it would now take twice as long to write her new signature.

      "About time," was Robin's greeting.  "Mum's agreed to marry that chubby bloke in the corner, and we've been waiting a full hour to open this damned bottle of bubbly.  Where the hell have you been?"

      "Looking at houses," said Celia, "and talking."

      "Has it been a fruitful day?" Edward enquired.

      "Very," replied Paul.  "I was very impressed with Celia's performance in the drawing office."

      Robin shook his head despairingly.  "Why, what has she been up to?"

      "She shows great promise, Robin, let's put it that way.  And I'm so glad Florence is going to make an honest man of this devious father of mine.  Hi, Dad!  Congratulations!"

      Edward's pipe almost fell out of his mouth.  He took a deep breath, leapt from his chair and impulsively threw himself at Paul for a long overdue embrace.

      "What's more," Celia added excitedly.  "Paul has been showing me the house we're going to live when we get married."

      "For crying out loud," yelled Robin, thumping the table, "will you love-birds stop cooing and drooling, and open that blasted Champagne?"

      "That's your job, Robin," said Edward.  "Maybe it won't be long before we're opening another bottle, eh?  Just for you?"

      Robin grunted scornfully and wrestled with the cork.  They watched in silence until he finally wrenched it free, spraying the onlookers with sticky liquid, and earning himself a warm round of applause.

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