During lunch with Mr. Samuelson, Celia found herself sorely out of her depth, unable to join in the technical issues that occupied the two men.  But she conceded it was a business meeting.  Her role was not to interrupt with irrelevant chatter, but to act as Paul's diplomat, to make Mr. Samuelson feel at ease, and improve Paul's chances of a contract.

      So she smiled a lot, answered questions briefly and respectfully, and supported every statement her fiancé made, whether or not she understood it.  And since Paul had already incurred a heavy hotel bill the night before, she was relieved when Mr. Samuelson insisted on paying for lunch.

      Then, prompted by a natural desire for their companion to notice her brand new engagement ring, she made what she intended as a light-hearted remark.

      "Actually," she said, "this has proved an especially exciting trip for Paul.  His family came from Bristol, and today - guess what - he's managed to trace some of his long-lost relatives.  Incidentally, last night in this very room, we also became officially engaged."

      "Oh, my dear, congratulations!  So that rather relegates our boring negotiations firmly into second place."

      "Not at all," Paul insisted, casting a glance at Celia.  "Our engagement was merely a cherry on the cake.  We wouldn't be here at all if I hadn't been extremely interested in this project of yours.  But let me pay for lunch, I feel it's right.  After all, it isn't every day one discovers a long-lost aunt and a completely unheard-of grandfather."

      He successfully laughed off Celia's faux-pas, and Mr. Samuelson was soon making excuses about returning to his office.  Paul settled the lunch bill, but remained ominously silent as he led Celia out to the car.

      "I think we may have blown it," he said as they began the journey home.  "Until you let the cat out of the bag, I felt sure he was impressed that we'd gone to the trouble of driving all this way from London, just to meet him.  Now he knows we had other motives."

      "Paul, you can't win or lose contracts simply by measuring how far the contenders need to travel.  My bones tell me you've got the job, but if you think I messed everything up back there, then I'm sorry.  In future you'd better leave me at home, out of harm's way."

      "Do you want to drive?" he responded curtly.

      "Yes," she snapped back.

      "Good."

      He stopped the car, reattached the L-plates and they changed places.  Celia pulled away from the kerb and instinctively matched her speed to that of the main road traffic.  Upset and angry, she drove according to her mood.

      "Take it easy," said Paul.  "We don't want any accidents."

      "If I don't go this fast, I'm holding up everyone else behind me," she retorted.  "That's something I seem to be doing every day of my life, and I hate it."

      "But they can see you're a learner.  Make it easy for them to pass."

      "I liked it better when we had the road to ourselves."

      "Maybe you did, but life isn't like that.  It's every man for himself these days.  Samuelson's probably on the phone right now, finding someone else to design his restaurant-cum-hotel."

      "Funny, I thought he looked intelligent.  According to your theory, he'll offer the job to the first man who claims he's motored down from Inverness.  Surely if Samuelson's got any sense, he'll choose the one who's going to give him the finest restaurant money can buy, and that's you.  Why don't you invite him and his wife to London?  Take them to dinner at your new coaching-inn in Surrey."

      "Sweetheart," said Paul, "that is a brilliant idea."

      "I am of some use then?" she replied, feeling as if the sun had come out after a severe storm.

      "Of course you are, my love."

      "Then I wish I wasn't driving this car."

      "Why?  You're doing fine."

      "I can't possibly drive and kiss you at the same time," she said, gripping firmly onto the wheel.

      "I see a garage at the top of the hill.  I suggest you pull in there.  We need some petrol anyway."

      Celia drove onto the forecourt, and parked beside a pump.  Then without further ado, she flung herself at Paul and held him as tightly as she could, breaking free only when a confused attendant came tapping on the window with a half-crown.

      "Do you want to carry on driving?" Paul asked as the tank was being filled.

      "Not for a while.  Perhaps we can find a quiet road later on."

      "I'm all in favour of quiet roads," he said as they swapped places.  "Do you know, it's twenty years since I last saw Aunt Mary.  She came to Frankfurt once for a holiday, when I was about ten or eleven.  Then she started sending gifts every Christmas and on my birthday - though it didn't last.  Maybe my grandfather objected, or perhaps politics got in the way.  They were difficult times for all of us."

      "What was she like, your Aunt Mary?"

      "As I recall, an older and slightly chubbier version of my mother.  She must be well into her sixties by now."

      "I'm longing to see a photo of your mother, Paul."

      "So am I, but I'm afraid I no longer have any, thanks to the RAF."

      Celia laid her hand on his arm.  "I am sorry.  But Mary sounds fun.  We're going to find her, Paul, and we're going to keep in touch from now on.  And if you don't get that Samuelson contract, I'll let you wheel me up and down the High Street every weekend till Christmas."

      "Why on earth would you want that?"

      "I wouldn't, I'd hate it.  But it's a safe bet.  One thing I can do well, Paul, is to judge people.  Trust me."

      The following morning in his office, Paul received a phone call inviting him to start work straight away on the Bristol project, pending a formal letter which was on its way.  Samuelson made a point of stressing how much he appreciated sharing their celebratory lunch, adding what a charming fiancée Celia was - tactful and diplomatic, yet thoroughly straightforward and delightfully honest.

      Paul was dying to pick up the phone and tell Celia the good news, and he felt very frustrated knowing it would have to wait till he got home.  The thought prompted him to dial directory enquiries and ask for the number of Mrs. Mary Oliphant in Bedford.  Taking a gamble that he been given the right one, he then put through a long distance call and waited.

      "Hallo?" said a forthright female voice.

      "This is Paul Muller.  Is that by any chance my long-lost Aunt Mary?"

      "Paul!  My sainted nephew, I don't believe it, how wonderful!  I'm on the point of writing to you.  I had a call last night from Doreen Farmer, saying you saw her yesterday.  Oh, Paul, this is incredible, after all these years.  She says you're a very handsome man with a super young fiancée.  Congratulations.  When's the wedding?"

      "Nothing fixed yet.  We only made it official two days ago."

      "Incredible!  Forgive me, but I still picture you as being ten years old.  Where on earth have you been all this time?"

      In giving her a brief history, Paul included the name of Edward Rustington, and when he mentioned their new relationship, there came a hearty roar of approval.

      "Aha!  Your mother finally revealed all, eh?  Betty confided in me ages ago, but I've been sworn to secrecy for over thirty years.  Paul, my boy, we've simply got to meet.  What can we arrange?"

      "Could you possibly offer two of us bed and breakfast on Friday night?  Is that asking too much?"

      "Of an old aunt?  Don't be daft.  Friday's perfect.  Does that mean we get to meet this super young lady Doreen was telling me about?  What's her name?"

      "Celia.  She's so much part of my life now, Aunt Mary, I couldn't dream of coming alone."

      "You're both more than welcome.  Let me give you the address before we get cut off.  You can't miss it.  Number 37, green front door, right opposite St. John's church.  It's on the main trunk road running right through the middle of Bedford.  If you cross the town bridge, you've gone too far.  Drive in through the double gates and park round the back.  Oh, this is just fantastic, Paul.  What time can you get here?"

      Paul was busy jotting down details.  "If we leave after work on Friday," he said, "you could expect us around seven o'clock.  Then we'll have most of the evening and all day Saturday to exchange news, Sunday too if you can bear it.  I reckon we'll need more than a weekend to catch up on twenty years."

      "Lovely, Paul.  Oh, it's so good to hear from you.  I really am looking forward to Friday."

      "So am I.  Oh, and I was amazed to discover I've also got a grandfather living in Great Yarmouth.  Is that true?"

      Three pips sounded, telling him his time was up.

      "Not any more.  Doreen's sadly out of date.  The old boy had a severe stroke a month ago."

      Paul tried not to sound disappointed.

      "Still, at least you're alive and well - that's the main thing.  Lovely to talk to you after all this time."

      As he put down the phone, Paul felt empty and disappointed.  The grandfather whom he had never met was now apparently no more.  They'd missed knowing each other by only a few weeks.

      He felt guilty that he hadn't gone to Bristol sooner, yet if he had, the circumstances would have been different.  Only by a fluke had he met his mother's former neighbours, without whose help he wouldn't even have known he had a grandfather.

      He looked at his watch.  Nearly twelve.  Whether or not Celia was in the house, he had to drive over - such news couldn't wait a moment longer.  He grabbed his coat and told Gladys he was taking an early lunch-hour.

      Ten minutes later he was outside the door, ringing the bell as he fumbled for his latch key.  But there seemed to be no reply - evidently Celia was out somewhere.

      "Celia, my love, are you home?" he called as he let himself in, intending to leave her a note.

      Hearing a welcome reply from above, he raced upstairs and knocked on her door.

      "May I come in?  It's that pestering milkman again."

      "All right," came a dull voice.

      He found her lying on her bed, fully dressed, looking utterly weary and red-eyed.  He knelt beside her and noticed her tears.

      "Not feeling so good today?  What's wrong, darling?  I have some good news - well, partly sad, but the rest is wonderful.  You look as though you need a spot of old-fashioned cheering up."

      "I feel so useless, Paul.  I can't get a job because everyone thinks I'm a cripple.  When I do try to walk normally, people still see at once that I'm different.  I messed up your business yesterday, saying something I merely thought might be of interest.  You don't want me, Paul - you're better off without me."

      "Now that is the silliest remark I ever heard.  Look at me.  I intend spending the rest of my days with you, chicken-face, and you'd better be happy about that, or I'll cancel our pretty little house on the wall.  And please explain why, despite those sad watery eyes, you still look so adorable?"

      "Even with this horrid scar on my chin?"

      "It's a beautiful scar and I love it because it belongs to you.  I love the way you walk, I love everything about you except your deplorable lack of self-confidence.  You're not useless, my darling, you're a wonderfully talented person, and you certainly didn't ruin my dealings with Samuelson, because he phoned this morning and asked me to take the contract.  He also said - listen carefully to this - he said how privileged he felt, dining with us yesterday, and being allowed to share our celebration.  You, my beautiful diplomat, said absolutely the right thing, which is very disappointing because I was particularly looking forward to wheeling you along the High Street in that rotten old pushchair.  We could have done it on Guy Fawkes Night and raised a pile of money for the bungalow."

      "You said you had something sad to tell me too?"

      "Yes.  I spoke on the phone this morning to Aunt Mary, and she told me that the old man in Yarmouth had a stroke a few weeks ago."

      "You mean he's died?"

      "I think so.  She simply said he wasn't around any more, something like that.  But we're both invited to stay with her on Friday night, if that's okay."

      "Did you tell her about my leg?"

      "Why would I need to do that?  Celia, my sweet, I've no intention of warning everyone in advance that my future wife is a strange lady with only one leg.  I want them see for themselves how beautiful you are, and make them envious that you belong to me.  Forget the leg! That's probably why you're not getting many job interviews.  You're telling those employers that an artificial leg is applying for a job, complete with one careful owner still attached.  Stop running yourself down.  It's entirely due to you that I've made contact with my Auntie Oliphant again, and you played a key role in getting me that Bristol job.  Talk about guardian angels!  What more could a bloke ask for?  You've come to terms with being an amputee.  Great!  Now face up to an even greater truth that you're a priceless asset and a damned attractive woman whom I'm hopelessly in love with.  Are you receiving my messages, Miss Moss, or do I have to get tough?"

      Celia put up both her fists.  "Just you try."

      Paul leaned over her, pinning her down with a strong hand on each wrist, like a lion about to devour its prey.

      "You delicious little girl, I swear I'll eat you if you grow any more gorgeous.  Now instead of lying here getting me all excited, why not make yourself useful this afternoon?  Have lunch with me, then come to my office, because I've got an important job for you."

      "What sort of a job?"

      "A sitting-down job, using your personal charm and influence on the telephone.  I want you, and only you, to phone our friend Samuelson and fix a date when he can come and see our very special restaurant, because it's a tip-top idea you came up with.  If he's got a wife, invite her too.  I want him to see that place, preferably in daylight, before I work on anything else for him.  Secondly, we need to track down a firm of builders who'll give us a good quote for a bungalow which I hope you still want to live in."

      "But I know nothing about builders, Paul.  How would I know a good quote from a bad one?"

      "You don't have to.  At this stage, you merely arouse their interest.  It's like fishing."

      "Will Mrs. Howard mind if I start doing her job?  I'll willingly phone about the bungalow, but oughtn't she to phone Samuelson?"

      "She hasn't met the man.  You have.  He knows you and he'll relate to your voice.  Come on.  Do you need help to get ready?"

      "No thanks.  It took twice as long yesterday.  Besides, that wasn't an open invitation for you to invade my privacy every time I get dressed.  It was just a necessary moment of truth I needed you to share, so you'd realise I'm not so pretty under all the fancy trimmings."

      "Too modest, that's your trouble.  I'll wait downstairs, but remember we have work to do.  You've got five minutes."

      Sitting in Paul's office that afternoon, Celia made a number of phone calls to various building contractors.  She also invited Mr. Samuelson and his wife Valerie to visit Paul's office on Friday morning, prior to the four of them having lunch together at a very special rendezvous.

      When Gladys Howard returned from her short break laden with groceries, Celia noticed again how tired she seemed.  They sat and talked over a quiet cup of tea.

      "Yes," Gladys sighed, "I know I've been overdoing it lately.  My doctor says I ought to take a rest, but I can't leave these two gentlemen stranded.  Right now, I'd love to go home and just fall into bed, but I've got mountains of work to finish before Edward gets back."

      "Is there anything I can do?" asked Celia.  "I certainly don't mean to interfere or get in the way, but I have loads of free time on my hands.  No-one else seems to want to employ me."

      "And I dare say you'd be much happier here, my dear, working near your young man, instead of sitting at home?  And why not?  I tell you what would be a weight off my shoulders - I'm sitting on a pile of invoices and statements that should have been sent out days ago.  If they don't get done soon, we'll have no money coming into the bank and then none of us will get paid.  It's an awful chore, to be honest, but it would be such a help, if you wouldn't mind."

      Celia was delighted to be doing something worthwhile.  She readily grasped what was needed and found the modern electric typewriter a joy to use.  By the end of the day she noticed Gladys looking far more relaxed, while she herself had enjoyed a very fulfilling afternoon.  It was fun too, working in tandem with someone as warm-hearted as Gladys, listening as she talked so knowledgeably on the phone to clients.  In many ways, Celia found it daunting, yet it brought her closer into Paul's exciting new world.

      Gladys asked for her help again the following day.  Celia insisted she didn't expect any payment - she was merely giving her free time to help out in what had now become the family business.

      "But don't let me be a nuisance," she kept on saying.

      Gladys could only laugh.  "My word, if what you're doing constitutes a nuisance, my dear, I wish we could unearth a few more nuisances like you."

      On the Thursday morning while Gladys was taking a coffee-break, Celia answered the office phone and was delighted to hear the distant voice of Edward, calling to say they were now longing to see their children more than they needed to see the rest of Paris.  They'd therefore be returning home on Saturday evening, arriving at Victoria Station at ten o'clock in case anyone felt like meeting them with a car.

      The next day Paul and Celia met the Samuelsons off the train at Paddington, and took them to an excellent lunch at the coaching inn.  Afterwards, Paul led his client on a detailed tour of the building, while Celia entertained Valerie Samuelson with tales of how she and Paul had met, describing the special thrill of their first date there and stressing what a wonderful atmosphere the place had.  As Paul drove them back to Paddington for their mid-afternoon train home, the visitors kept saying how impressed they both were.

      "A highly successful venture," Paul confided as he rejoined Celia in the car.  "Ten out of ten for that idea, my love, you're a very clever girl.  Now, it's gone three - hardly worth returning to the office, so instead shall we point ourselves in the direction of Bedford?"

      "But Paul, we've still got to go home to collect our luggage."

      "Mine's already in the car," he said.  "What exactly do you need?"

      "Lots of things, Paul.  My face-flannel and toothbrush for a start, my nightdress and a fresh change of clothes for tomorrow."

      "Let's toss for it.  Heads we drive back to the house for your belongings; tails we head north and buy whatever you need on the way."

      "But I've already got a perfectly good toothbrush, Paul.  It's stupid to go and buy another one just for tonight."

      "A toothbrush costs less than the petrol needed to go and fetch it," he pointed out.  "Anyway, it's time I bought you a few presents.  Do you realise that until Monday I'd never given you anything?"

      "Nonsense, Paul, you've given me so much.  You brought something wonderful into my life at a time when everything seemed so bleak.  And this ring must have cost a fortune."

      "It wasn't cheap, I'll admit.  But neither was it wildly extravagant.  I'd call it a comfortable balance between what you're really worth, and spending money we could use more wisely on things we're going to need."

      "Such as?"

      "Oh, face-flannels, new toothbrush, a nightdress and maybe a change of clothes for tomorrow."  He tossed a coin.  "And tails it is.  Do you feel like driving to Bedford?  Either way, you'd better get behind the wheel pretty quickly because we're parked in a spot reserved for disabled drivers, and that copper over there is all set to come and pounce on us."

      "I knew my peculiarities would come in useful one day.  I'll waddle round to the other side of the car, and see how he reacts."

      The approaching officer stopped abruptly as Celia made a show of stumping awkwardly around and heaving herself into the driving seat.  Once there, she had no choice but to drive off, and found herself all at once in dense London traffic.

      "This is crazy, Paul!  I can't believe I'm doing this."

      "You're doing fine.  You've just been thrown in at the deep end, that's all.  Keep it up."

      The traffic was moving very slowly, and Celia soon realised she had only to follow the vehicle in front at its own pace.  The congestion eased considerably once they were into Hertfordshire, and she become more confident.

      Under Paul's guidance she followed the Great North Road to Potters Bar and Hatfield, then paused for a rest in Stevenage where they visited several shops and bought some overnight essentials, a pretty new dress and some jointly selected ladies' underwear.

      Revelling in her new-found mobility, Celia drove on, taking a fairly quiet route through Hitchin and Shefford, and they reached Bedford shortly before five o'clock.

      "Nice and early," said Paul.  "Next year, I'm signing you up for the Monte Carlo Rally.  Now, we've a couple of hours in hand, so let's explore."

      Celia parked the car and they strolled arm in arm along the river bank.  Then Paul led her up onto a steeply arched iron suspension bridge that spanned the Ouse.

      "Paul!  Slow down," she complained, "this isn't easy for me.  You can walk up this kind of slope by keeping both knees bent, but this right leg of mine doesn't understand what's going on here."

      Paul put his arm around her and helped her up the steepest part of the narrow footbridge.

      "You know, I'm jolly lucky that you have these leg problems," he teased.  "Few chaps get so many excuses for putting an arm around their fiancée."

      "And you're getting quite a kick out of it?" she laughed.  "You'll feel a different kind of kick if you don't behave yourself."

      On the crown of the bridge, they stopped to gaze down at a family of swans gliding gracefully through the waters beneath their feet.

      "It must be nice and peaceful being a swan," Celia remarked.

      "Fine, as long as you enjoy soggy bread, and don't mind getting your feet wet."

      From under the massive town bridge ahead of them, a rowing boat came into view, manned by a young couple enjoying a leisurely hour on the river.

      "That looks like fun," said Celia.  "I reckon I could manage that."

      "Then let's put you to the test.  Think of the exciting tales we'll have for the old folks when we meet up tomorrow.  Or do you prefer to stand here and watch the world drift by?" he added, noting Celia's reluctance to move.

      "To be honest, Paul, I'm nervous about getting off this bridge.  It's very steep and I'm afraid I'll slip.  I don't want to fall over and meet your aunt looking as if I've been rolling in the dirt."

      Five chimes from a nearby church clock reminded them they still had two spare hours before they were due to knock on Aunt Mary's door.

      "Let's spend it sitting down," said Paul, guiding her off the bridge towards a sign proclaiming boats for hire.  Before she had time to argue, Celia found herself being helped into the seat of a rowing boat, and was handed the oars.

      "I'll have to be more careful what I say in future," she observed as Paul took his position in the stern.  "Do we have to try this out in such a public place?"

      "We don't have enough room in the bath-tub at home.  Besides, there's no obligation.  We've got this boat until seven o'clock.  You can either spend the time just sitting here, or you might like to try dipping the oars in the water and then leaning gently backwards."

      Celia found she could propel the boat quite smoothly.  With Paul steering her clear of any obstacles, her initial look of concern gave way to a brave smile and then happy laughter as she soon acquired the knack of placing the oars at the correct depth and pulling with just the right amount of effort.  Paul offered her tips on the technique of "feathering" and she thus acquired her second new skill of the week.

      Time passed all too quickly.  Shortly before seven, Celia came skimming confidently back to the boat yard, leaving behind her a beautifully symmetrical wake on the rippled surface of the Ouse.  She pulled in to the bank and shipped the oars, very proud of her achievement.

      Just as Paul stepped onto the bank ready to help Celia out, two lads in another boat pulled up alongside.  Celia had already stood up and was reaching to grasp Paul's hand when a member of the other crew pressed heavily on the side of her boat.

      It rocked, and she faltered.  She waved her arms frantically in the air, but it was too late.  She lost her balance and felt herself falling helplessly into the water.

      Celia knew Paul could move fast.  He could cross a room in under three seconds to open a door for someone; he could have mats on the table in less time than it took to ask.  But she never knew how he managed to be there, standing in the river behind her, ready to catch her before she hit the water.  As she cried out, his powerful arms held her clear of the surface and carried her safely to dry land, to a spontaneous round of applause from onlookers.

      Apart from a small damp patch at the hem of her dress, Celia' clothes were completely dry, but Paul had been wearing his best suit, his trousers now soaked to the thigh, and heavy with water.  Undismayed, he performed a modest bow for onlookers, suggested firmly to the other crew that they take more care in future, and led Celia back to the car.

      "Lucky I was there," he joked.  "Didn't I say, you'd never fall while I was around?"

      Celia laughed.  "Now who's got the funny walk?  Paul, you're soaked!  What's Aunt Mary going to say when she sees you like that?  And they're your best trousers too.  Oh Paul, I am sorry.  And I haven't even thanked you for what you did."

      They paused for a moment on the riverside while she publicly thanked him in a way she knew he'd appreciate.

      Back in the car, Paul took a pair of shoes, socks and casual trousers out of his suitcase, and rubbed himself down with a bath-towel.

      "I'm going to change in the car," he announced.  "You can either sit and watch, or count swans.  The other day I saw your underwear - now's your chance to see mine.  An exciting week, huh!"

      Five minutes later, looking remarkably neat and casual, Paul drove to St. Johns and pulled up outside the church, right opposite a double-fronted façade with a central green door.  He saw a narrow entrance at the side, waited for a gap in the traffic, and then drove into a secluded inner courtyard.

      The house was a large solid Victorian homestead with a line of stables and outhouses all along the yard.  Ahead of them lay a large lawn, shaded by a clump of fir trees.

      Aunt Mary suddenly appeared from nowhere and hovered expectantly as they both got out of the car.

      "Paul!" she exclaimed.  "My word, aren't you like your mother!"

      She sailed towards them, flinging her arms wide to welcome the nephew whom she hadn't seen for over twenty years.  Celia waited discreetly until she felt it was time for her presence to be acknowledged.

      "And you must be Celia.  You can safely put two and two together, my dear, and assume from the way I'm cuddling this tall boy that I'm his Aunt Mary.  Gosh, isn't this wonderful?"

      She paused for breath, her lively face turning from one to the other in great excitement.  "I still can't believe it.  I've thought so often about you, Paul.  I even flew over to Frankfurt soon after the war to try and find out more about what happened.  I found a charming old clergyman or priest, something of the kind, who told me the awful news and showed me Betty's grave.  There, and I swore I wouldn't speak of sad subjects the moment you arrived.  Oh, Paul, it is good to see you again.  And isn't he handsome?  My word!"

      Paul explained.  "It would have been easier to trace you if so much hadn't been destroyed.  But my only clues were ones I carried in my head.  I traced Edward Rustington because I knew he was an architect, but I didn't know how to get in touch with you."

      "You should have written to your old aunt more often when you were small, you naughty boy.  Then you'd have remembered my address."

      "I did, but all my letters got returned.  Besides you were Mrs. Mary Stephens in those days.  I didn't hear the name Oliphant till we went to Bristol last Monday."

      "Paul, I'm only teasing.  You're completely exonerated.  And let me warn you here and now, I've heard enough Oliphant jokes to last a lifetime and beyond.  Come inside both of you, and make yourselves comfy.  Tea, coffee, beer, sherry, what would you like?  Tell you what, we'll have a sherry first, just to say welcome home!  Is that all right?  Gosh, there's so much to talk about, Paul, I can't think where to begin."

      Still chattering, Mary led them through a side door, up some steps and into a large drawing room which featured a Bechstein grand piano standing on a royal blue carpet, with elegant french windows that opened onto the yard and gardens beyond.

      Mary went to a large cocktail cabinet and poured sherry for each of her guests, then raised her own in a toast.

      "Again I say, welcome home, Paul.  That doesn't mean home as in Bedford St. Johns, but home to the Anderson family.  And welcome also to Celia, who's due to join our ranks very soon.  No date fixed yet?  Too early, perhaps?"

      "I rather think the wedding date's already leaping towards us," she said.  "We're well past the making-up-our-minds stage."

      Paul laughed.  "We've now reached the how-can-we-possibly-afford-it stage.  But we're going to.  We're having our own little bungalow built - designed by me within the constraints of current building regulations, plus a few added improvements from Celia."

      "And Paul, you've teamed up with Edward.  How is he, by the way, and how's that wife of his?"

      "Gone, I'm afraid.  He was widowed a year ago."

      "But now," Celia added quickly, "Edward's on his second honeymoon in Paris with a new bride who happens also to be my mother."

      "How fascinating!  And have Edward and your mother known each other long?"

      "Oh, donkeys' years - forty, I think."

      "Forty?  She could even be part of the old gang.  Do I know her?"

      "Her name's Florence."

      "Florence?"  She looked at Paul.  "Not the girl who married Tom Moss?"

      "That's right," Celia confirmed.  "Tom Moss was my father."

      "Tom and Celia's brother were killed in the war," Paul explained.  "Celia herself was badly injured, but she's perfect as far as I'm concerned, and there doesn't seem to be much she can't do.  I'm hoping she'll soon help me get rid of my German accent."

      "I'm surprised your mother didn't do that when you were little."

      "Unfortunately her German husband - and for years I believed he was my real father - he forbade the use of English in our house.  Not a man I would ever have picked for a Dad if I'd had the choice.  In fact I never did fathom out what my mother saw in him."

      "No," Mary sighed, "you weren't the only one.  Maybe I can fill in a few more details later on.  And when did you finally discover the vital role Edward played in your life?"

      "A few weeks ago.  The old duffer was too shy to tell me himself."

      "So how did you find out, if not from Betty?  I swear no-one else knew."

      "I told him," Celia intervened.  "Edward asked me to."

      "Good for you, my dear.  That must have taken some courage."

      "Ah, but you see, I wanted to tell him.  That made it much easier.  But why you didn't try to find Paul through Edward?"

      "Oh, my dears!  Not because I didn't want to, believe me.  But you're forgetting, I'm supposed to know nothing about Edward's involvement.  I could easily have put my clumsy foot in it and wrecked his marriage.  It's only when your mother felt she had to confide in someone that she let her big sister in on the secret.  I swore I'd never tell a living soul, and I never did, not even the old man.  Anyway, I'm delighted we've met up at last, Paul, I really am."

      Instead of responding, Paul expressed a desire to bring their luggage in from the car.

      "You can park it in one of the empty stables," Mary advised as he headed for the door.  "Poor boy - he's so sensitive, always was.  This must be an emotional time for him.  I'll probably end up in tears myself before the evening's out."

      "It was probably hearing you mention his grandfather," said Celia.  "I know Paul was deeply disappointed not to have met him.  We only heard of the man's existence a few days ago, and now I understand we're too late."

      "No, my dear, no, not at all," Mary corrected her, "the poor lad didn't give me time to explain on the phone.  When Paul talked about having a grandfather in Yarmouth, I stupidly said 'Not any more,' never thinking he'd take it the wrong way.  Then he rang off without giving me his number."

      "You're saying he's still alive?"

      "Certainly, though he's not the man he was.  In that sense, it's true.  Paul will never know the old man as his mother and I did."

      "And does he still disown Betty?"

      "Difficult to say.  He's had a severe stroke, you see, and has a job trying to make himself understood.  I tried to let on that Paul was coming, but it's hard to know whether the message got through."

      "You mean he's here?  In this house?"  Celia leaned forward urgently, "Aunt Mary, this may seem an awful cheek, but could I possibly meet him first, on my own, just for a short while?  Why don't you take Paul around the garden?  Make my excuses - tell him my leg's getting tiresome, he'll understand."

      Mary looked concerned.  "Yes, you did look a bit stiff getting out of the car.  I expect you got cramp on the journey - I often do."

      "No, this is a Roehampton leg.  I've had it nearly fourteen years."

      "What?  You mean it's not real?  Crumbs, I wouldn't have known.  It looks real enough from here.  All right, I'll take you in to see the old man, he'd like that.  But don't expect any response.  He may not even acknowledge your existence."

      Mary led Celia through to a quiet front room where she saw a lonely old gentleman sitting by the window with a thick tartan rug over his knees.  He had a head of fine white hair, a sallow smooth face, and aging blue eyes that stared vacantly out at the passing traffic.

      "Gives him some amusement, poor old duffer," she whispered.  Then without any warning, Mary raised her voice to a bellow.  "Dad?  Visitors to see you.  Be polite to this young lady, while I show our other guest round the garden?"

      There was no reaction.  Quietly she added, "We'll come back to rescue you in about five minutes."

      Left alone with Mr. Anderson, Celia pulled up a chair and sat beside him.  He glanced enquiringly towards her, his expression one of bewildered concern but with scant awareness.  She thought she could see in his eyes a definite similarity to Paul, and she shuddered at the thought of her young husband one day becoming just as old, and maybe suffering a stroke.

      "My name's Celia," she began, searching his face for recognition.  She knew what she wanted to say.  She wanted desperately to tell him about his grandson Paul, but she had to approach the subject cautiously and from the right angle to avoid shocking or upsetting him.

      "A while ago," she went on, as if telling an impromptu story to a sleepy child, "all I could do was to sit like you and watch the traffic go by.  But we live on a quiet street in London where nothing much happens.  I couldn't go out then, you see.  My right leg was taken away when a bomb fell on our house during the war."

      The old man slowly turned his gaze down toward her leg, and then looked anxiously up into her face, peering through glazed eyes that spoke of a world of confusion.

      "You might think I ought to hate the Germans for doing this," Celia continued, "but I don't.  What's more, there's a young man from Germany whom I met recently, and I'm going to marry him, so they can't all be bad, can they?  Can you guess why I want to marry him?  It's because I love him with all my heart, and even though I'm not as agile and pretty as I once was, I'm sure he loves me too.  When you love someone like that, all those other fears and prejudices get pushed aside till you realise they're gone for ever.  My fiancé lost his whole family in the war because of a British bomb that landed in the wrong place.  Imagine losing everyone you ever loved, all at once.  It must have been so awful for him."

      Old Grandpa Anderson's eyes were now directed straight into hers, watching her every move.

      "I'm glad Mary's able to have you here and look after you.  It proves she still loves and cares about you, doesn't it?  I don't have a grandpa any more, I wish I did.  Mine was ever so nice when we were little.  He smoked a pipe and the smell of it seemed to say: 'Everything's fine because Grandpa's here!'  But he died before the war, and he was the last of that generation.  I hope my mother likes the man I'm going to marry, though even if she didn't I still wouldn't change my mind, it would have to be Paul.  Wouldn't it be nice if everyone in the world could be happy as we are?  No more wars, no arguments, no starvation, no unkind words, no cruelty.  No false limbs or nasty strokes, eh?"

      The face barely moved a muscle, yet a glimmer of a smile showed in his eyes, and Celia was sure every word was being heard and understood.

      "Aunt Mary's going to bring my fiancé in to meet you soon, and I want you to show him you're happy to see him.  Now remember, I told you he was born in Germany.  But he was born because two people cared for each other.  Love is a most wonderful thing, isn't it?  I feel so bright and alive when I'm with Paul.  Do you know, we've even been for a run together, and when you've got a leg like mine, that's pretty unusual, wouldn't you say?  But Paul is a very gifted, talented man.  I know you'll like him."

      She edged her chair nearer, as if to share a secret.

      "Of course, we've had one or two minor arguments, but only because we're still learning about each other, trying to adjust to each other's ways.  And we'd never let any row or misunderstanding go on for more than a few minutes.  It isn't worth being miserable when you can be happy instead, for the cost of a few simple, loving words."

      Was she getting anywhere?  She tried another approach.

      "My grandmother had a stroke when I was five, and she couldn't talk at all.  Mum said it was because she simply couldn't be bothered, but I knew differently, because once when I was six years old, Grandma tried so hard to wish me a Happy Birthday.  It took her nearly a minute to get those vital words out, and I could see what a struggle it was.  But I held her hand, and let her take her time, and in the end she managed to say it, and I gave her such a big hug, because I loved her all the more for making such an effort, just for me."

      Celia noticed a tear in the old man's eye, and she gently wiped it with her handkerchief.

      "Now soon it'll be your turn.  When I bring my fiancé in to meet you, I want you to say the name Paul.  Have you got that?  You might recognise something about his face, because I recognised something about your face as soon as I saw you.  And that's because Paul's mother once upon a time was a little girl called Betty who had a big sister called Mary.  She went to live in Germany and couldn't bring Paul over to England because they wouldn't let her.  But I'm going to marry Paul because he's the nicest man in the world, and you've probably guessed by now, he's your grandson.  Now, you be nice to him when you see him, because I want him to know that a Grandpa is a wonderful friend to have.  I still miss my Grandpa very much.  That's why I want Paul to have happy memories of you today, the day he meets his own Grandpa for the very first time.  And wait till you see what a fine handsome grandson you've got.  Oh, you've just got to love him, Grandpa.  Make him happy, Grandpa, please.  Do it for me."

      The tired moist eyes looked away towards something beyond Celia's shoulder.  She quickly dried her own tears, then turned to see what it was.

      "You're trying to tell me something, aren't you.  Something you'd like me to fetch for you?"

      Seeing a faint nod, Celia got up and went over to a long low bookcase.  Glancing back at his face she felt sure it wasn't a book he wanted, it was something else.  She picked up a small faded photograph in an oval silver frame - a portrait of two young girls, taken perhaps half a century ago - and the man's mouth opened as if telling her she'd found what he wanted her to see.

      "This picture?" she asked.  "Grandpa?  Is this a picture of Mary and your little Betty?"

      The jaw moved, the eyes blinked a few more tears, and the tongue tried to articulate.  Celia took the picture over to the window and examined it carefully.  The elder girl was clearly the young Mary Anderson.  The other had to be Betty.

      "Is this Betty?" she repeated.  "Oh, Grandpa, you must show Paul this picture when he comes in.  He'd love it so much if you showed it to him."

      As she laid the frame carefully on his lap, he gazed down as if to fondle it with his eyes, and a lazy finger moved slowly to wipe a fleck of dust from the glass.

      In the hall outside, Celia could hear voices.  With a knock on the door, Mary and Paul crept in like late-comers entering a Sunday service.

      "Your young man doesn't like being without you for long," Mary said gently.

      Celia got up at once and went over to Paul, bubbling with excitement.

      "Paul, darling, have you been told who this wonderful old gentleman is?  I'm certain he knows who you are."

      They focused on the pale, white-haired figure by the window.  His fingers slowly closed over the photo frame and he gazed up at Paul, his lips pressed forward.

      "Paul?" he croaked, almost imperceptibly.

      His grandson darted forward and knelt down beside the old man, taking one of the cold hands and pressing it hard against his own cheek.  Grandfather's other hand moved to the photograph, pushing it imperceptibly towards Paul, with a word that sounded like "Mama."

      Paul took the frame from him, and after an enquiring glance at others he studied it closely.  Then he laid his arm around his grandfather's shoulder and looked into the aged eyes which were now awash with tears.  He took the old man's hand again and felt a secure response as cold bony fingers lightly gripped onto his own.

      "Is it my imagination," Mary whispered, "or was he trying to say Paul and Mummy just now?"  The old man looked up, his eyes fixed on Celia as he very deliberately repeated the name of Paul.

      "Been a long time, hasn't it, Dad?" Mary said softly.  "Thirty bloody years too long if you ask me.  What's that he's holding?"

      "It's a photo from over there," Celia explained.  "It's must be you and Betty at school together.  He seemed to want it."

      Mary laughed.  "To be honest, I clean forgot it was in here.  But it's certainly caught his interest."  She raised her voice again.  "Dad?  Did you enjoy your chat with Celia?"

      Again the mouth opened and the tongue came forward as though trying to say Celia's name, till a look of regret showed it was beyond him.

      "You stick to saying Paul, Dad, he's your grandson.  Celia's more of a mouthful, and as for Mary Oliphant, or Hairy Elephant as they call me at school, well I think we'd better write that one off altogether."

      "Paul," Celia urged, "it's okay - you can talk to him.  He understands, even if he can't reply."

      "Celia's told you who I am, has she?"

      "Paul," he murmured a little more clearly, and tried to add something that sounded like "Good name!"

      "That was your Betty's choice," Paul confided.  "My German father wanted me called Otto."

      "Paul!" the old man repeated, slowly nodding his head.

      "You approve of this young lady I'm going to marry?" Paul asked, and the tired eyes looked straight at Celia.  "So do I.  Don't you think she's a cracker, Grandpa?  You can understand why I fell in love with her."

      "Paul and Celia," he murmured with a satisfied nod.

      "I think we can take that as a seal of approval," Mary intervened brightly.  "Now listen, dears, sorry to be a bore but the doctor did emphasise we weren't to tire him, and I reckon you two have just about flattened the old boy's batteries.  We'll give him a short break now."

      Bellowing, she added: "They'll be back later to see you before bedtime."

      Celia blew a grateful kiss as they closed the door and left him in peace.

      "He could easily have another stroke and pop off tomorrow," Mary explained in the kitchen, "or he could get steadily better and go on for years, who knows?  And before you tactfully point out he can hear perfectly well without my having to shout, I know that.  But it helps me to reinforce my authority.  And to think he once used to put me over his knee, pull down my knickers and spank my bare bottom if I was naughty.  It's a topsy-turvy world, right enough.  Ah!" she exclaimed as a powerful car raised a dusty whirlwind in the courtyard.  "Here's George.  Perhaps you two could set the table for me?  Plates are here on the kitchen table.  Cutlery's in a canteen by the window - oh, wait a minute, poor dears, you don't even know where the dining room is.  We'll let George do that when he comes in.  I don't normally get this far behind, but well, today has been a bit special.  And I'm truly amazed with the old man.  You got more out of him in two minutes than I've heard since he got here.  Either he's making progress, or you stimulated a sudden power surge.  Celia, my love, mash those potatoes for me, would you?  There's cream and butter in the fridge, Paul, if you could get those out for her.  Apart from that, everything's just about ready."

      A bald man in a suit stood patiently in the kitchen doorway, waiting for the chance to voice his own words of greeting.

      "Good heavens!" he cried.  "Visitors.  Which one's which?"

      "I'm the long-lost nephew," Paul replied.

      "Are you?  The other one's much prettier."

      "She's my fiancée.  Her name's Celia and I'm Paul."

      "Ah, same as the old man."

      Paul looked stunned.  "Is his name Paul?"

      "His middle name's Paul.  That should guarantee you a place in the old boy's will," he added with a wink.

      "George, behave yourself and show Paul where the dining room is.  You can both set the table.  How are the spuds coming along, my dear?"

      Mary peered at Celia's mashed potatoes, giving her no time to reply before she continued:

      "Splendid!  Apologies if I sound a bit bossy now and then, but that's the schoolmarm in me.  Betty and I both trained as teachers in Bedford, but she lost out when she went abroad.  My hands are tied now, with the old man being here, but I'm still available for the odd spot of relief work.  Can you really walk on that leg of yours without a stick?  I think you're a bloody marvel, if you don't mind me saying so.  And I think Paul's picked a winner too, between you and me, but mind you don't let him get complacent.  It's best to keep these men-folk on their toes.  Now let's bung everything on a trolley and wheel it through.  Bet you a tanner the table's not yet set."

      It wasn't.  The two men were discussing local building regulations, and laying out knives and forks as though each one required planning permission.  But Mary soon had her guests seated for a merry feast, and as they raised their glasses Paul knew he'd been royally welcomed back into the hearts of his own true family.

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