As I explained the whole story to him Mike’s face went through a series of expressions which would have done justice to a chameleon.
When I had finished he looked at me thoughtfully. “And you believe him?” “Yes, I do. He seemed perfectly genuine. His story’s perfectly plausible. But the real clincher was the photograph. It’s a smaller version of the same photo that hung on the wall in the parents’ bedroom all these years – the one which we now all have a copy of. How else could he have that photo if not from his mother?”
“And the other photo. What did the girl look like?” “Brunette, good looking. A bit in the style of Mum actually.”
Mike sat back and rubbed the top his head with his hand.
“Wow! The old bugger never told us about this.” “He wouldn’t, would he? He came back to Mum, got married and here we are – all three of us. This man – Pierre Collard is his name – insisted that his mother never found out that she was pregnant until Dad had gone back home and, as she had known he was engaged, she never told him. She probably wouldn’t have known how to contact him anyway. I don’t know about you but I can easily imagine how it happened. If she was in the Resistance and Dad was undercover liaising with them life must have been bloody dangerous. I suppose in circumstances like that you would, let’s say, ‘forge mutually comforting relationships’. You certainly would, that’s for sure!”
Mike didn’t comment. “I’ll bet there are hundreds of similar cases. And probably most of the kids born like that were simply told that their fathers had been killed. Easier for everyone.”
Mike sat back, thinking it through. He took another sip of his wine and put the glass gently down on the table. He looked across at me with a grin.
“So what do we do now?” asked Mike. “I suppose we’ll have to tell Heather.”
“First of all, you’ve got to meet him. He plays golf – maybe it’s Dad’s genes. Anyway I invited him for eighteen holes at Ladybank tomorrow. I thought you might come along and hack your way round the course with us. Gives you an opportunity to meet him and, if your feelings are the same as mine, we’d better cart him over to meet Heather and Oliver.”
Mike was obviously still absorbing the news and only half-listening. He was slowly shaking his head from side to side then a wide smile spread across his features.
“The randy sod,” he said, – but there was a genuine tone of affection in the way he said it, “But then, I suppose . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What was that you said? Golf tomorrow? OK, what time?”
“Eleven. I haven’t told Pierre that I would bring you so it’ll be a surprise for him. It’ll be interesting to see his reaction and you’ll get an opportunity to come to your own conclusion about whether he’s telling the truth or not.”
It would also give me the chance to really see what kind of a man Pierre was. It’s difficult to judge the true personality of someone over a couple of bottles of good solid red wine but on a golf course it’s a different matter.
The way a person reacts to success or adversity is a good pointer to their character. And there is a lot of that in a round of golf. How he reacts on losing a hole, or winning a hole, on missing a three-footer on the last green or on driving two balls in a row into the deep rough are all very good indicators of personality.
We caught up on each other’s news for the rest of the meal – my attempts at gardening, Mike’s recent hike in Skye with Oscar – finished off with a coffee and I settled the bill. We made our farewells on the pavement outside the restaurant. Mike promised to be down by nine thirty the next morning and we’d go over to the course together.
I had arranged to pick up Pierre from the hotel. Mike and I arrived just before ten. I left him in the car and went into the reception to find Pierre. He was waiting in the bar reading the newspaper when I walked in. We greeted each other as recently acquainted friends would.
A “Good morning” and “How was your headache yesterday morning?”.
“I decided that I needed some fresh air yesterday,” he grinned, “So I went off to St Andrews for the day. I also thought I’d better get myself some clubs because I haven’t brought mine with me.”
“You needn’t have bothered. You could have hired some at the club for the day.”
“It’s not a problem,” he replied. “I’ve been meaning to get some new ones for a while.”
I then told Pierre that I had a surprise for him. He looked at me curiously.
“I’ve invited your other half-brother to come and play as well. I thought it was a good opportunity for you to meet him.”
I’m sure that he paused for a split second as he was getting up from his chair but he covered it up with a slight stumbling movement, as if he had caught his thigh on the table. A slight look of concern crossed his face – as if he would rather that I hadn’t – but the moment passed very quickly and his composure returned. It had only been for the briefest of moments but it did make me think that perhaps I should have discussed it with him beforehand.
“You don’t mind, do you?” “Not at all,” he said. “I was hoping I would get to meet the others while I was here.”
We walked out to the car, and as we approached it the door opened and Mike climbed out.
He came towards us with a smile and held out his hand to greet Pierre. What could have been a slightly awkward moment passed off very smoothly.
“Delighted to meet you, Pierre. Bob has told me the whole story – or as much as he knows. I must admit it was a bit of a shock at first but I’ve kind of got used to the idea now. I had always thought I only had one older brother so it’s a bit strange to discover that I am now only third in line for the title.”
“In line for the title? What title?” “Oh there is no title. It’s just an expression. And, even if there was, there would have been no castle or estate that went with it. Come on. Let’s go and play some golf.”
Pierre went over to his car, opened up the boot and proceeded to haul out a brand new golf bag filled with a complete set of Mizuno clubs, a box containing a pair of shoes and a shiny caddy. Mike and looked at each other.
“Blimey, that must have cost you a packet,” I said. Pierre grinned. “I felt like treating myself.” We stowed his gear in my car and set off for what every golfer hopes will be an enjoyable eighteen holes, where every drive goes down the middle of the fairway, where all the putts drop and at least one green side bunker shot ends up in the hole. But it never works out that way!
Conversation was a little difficult as Mike was in front and Pierre in the back of the car so I filled in the time on the short fifteen-minute drive by explaining a bit of the history of the course he was going to play. How, back in the 1870s, the locals of the village had invited Old Tom Morris, one of the father figures of golf, to come over from St Andrews and help to design a short golf course for them. He had cycled the fifteen miles and, in an afternoon, laid out a course of six holes then cycled back home again with his twenty five pounds fee in his back pocket. Later they had added three more holes to make it into a good testing nine-hole golf course where, as a boy, I had learned the rudiments of the game.
Since then it had been extended to eighteen holes and it was now recognized as one of the most testing courses in the county and, whenever the British Open was played at St Andrews, it was used as one of the qualifying courses.
We were lucky as the weather was reasonably clement. Clear blue sky, no sign of rain and hardly any wind. As it was mid-week there were few people on the course and it looked like we would be able to take our time. I had no idea how good a golfer Pierre was but I did know Mike’s game. I think the best adjective to describe it is “flamboyant”. There tends to be a great deal of effort put into his swing but not so much technique. I had given up years ago giving him advice. It just pissed him off. The only time I gave him advice now was if, by the fourteenth, it looked like he had a chance of beating me. That was the moment to make little suggestions to him about how to improve his swing.