I managed to register most of what he was saying whilst my mind was racing in all sorts of directions.

“My mother absolutely forbade me to attempt to find out what had happened to him. As she said, he might well have been killed. Better to remember what we had, she used to say. However, after she died and I retired, curiosity got the better of me and brought me over here.”

My consternation was slowly subsiding. I picked up my glass and took a large mouthful of that delicious wine and let it roll around in my mouth before swallowing it gently. I put the glass back down and looked at him again. Still that same half-nervous, half-questioning expression on his face.

I held up the photograph of the smiling couple. “I’ve never seen this photo in my life, but this one,” holding up the studio portrait, “has hung on the wall of my mother’s bedroom all my life.”

“And . . .?” Although I had had a shock I somehow adjusted to it rather quickly. I suppose it was because I rather liked this guy.

I looked across at him. He was clearly nervous about my reaction. I shook my head slowly from side to side and allowed my mouth to form a half-smile.

“The randy old bugger!” I said, slowly, pausing gently on each word.

This man’s father was the same man that I knew as my father. It sounded incredible but there was the evidence in front of me. There was no way he could otherwise have had a copy of the photo I knew so well. My sister and brother also had copies.

I had to believe Pierre’s story. It rang true. And, as Pierre had said, I’ll bet Dad wasn’t the only one.

It was perfectly understandable that such circumstances could have happened. I knew Dad had spent a year in France but knew no details. We kids had assumed that it must have been very dangerous. Whether his relationship with Pierre’s mother had been love or simply an intense friendship between two people living on the edge I would never know but, knowing Dad, I figured that I understood how it could have happened. He had come back to my mother and they had had a very happy marriage so I felt no need to criticise him. He had never known about the pregnancy, how could he?

I noticed that the wine bottle was almost empty. “So, as it seems that I’ve just discovered I’ve got an older half-brother – and he’s paying for the dinner – I reckon you’d better order another bottle.”

Pierre’s face relaxed into a contented smile. He clearly had hoped that I would not be too shocked by the news and he made appropriate signs to the waiter who appeared shortly with another of the same.

Conversation after that was naturally a little slow as we both adjusted to the fact that the news was out. I would occasionally stop in mid-sentence and shake my head in surprise.

We both were intensely curious to explore each other’s experiences of the last sixty-odd years. He was clearly desperate to know about his father but didn’t push too hard while I took my time to get used to the idea. I was fascinated to learn about his upbringing in Normandy and what he had done with his life and conversation started to flow more and more smoothly in direct correlation to the diminishing level of the wine in the bottle.

The manager eventually threw us out – or politely asked us to vacate the restaurant – at about half-past eleven. By then I was in no fit state to drive so he kindly offered to drive me home. Pierre and I parted at the door, agreeing that we should give ourselves a day to get used to our new relationship.

Just before parting company one of my habitual off-piste thoughts came into my mind.

“Pierre, you don’t by any chance play golf, do you?” “Where did that question come from? Yes, actually, I do.”

“Good or average?” “I used to play to eleven or twelve, but that was a good few years ago.”

I smiled. “Right. It must be Dad’s genes. Day after tomorrow I’ll take you to my club. It’s very near here and he was a member there for as long as I can remember.”

Pierre said he’d be more than happy and I was levered into the car to be escorted home.

Next morning I awoke rather late. Although it was May, the night had been very cold and there was still rime on the grass at ten o’clock. But the sky was clear and the air was fresh, which was more than could be said for my head. I was getting past it, I said to myself. A whisky before dinner, a full bottle of Bordeaux and a couple of brandies after. There was a day when I would have taken that in my stride. Not now.

The state of my head reminded me of the discoveries of the previous evening. I decided to go for a brisk walk up to the post office to get some milk, in the hope that the exercise would bring me more or less back to normal. Why did Mrs McLachlan‘s voice sound twice as loud as usual? I made it back home and headed off into the kitchen to make myself a cup of strong coffee.

I walked past Dad’s photograph on the wall. It was a larger, framed version of the one that Pierre carried around in his wallet. I stopped and looked at it with an affectionate smile. I’d walked past that photograph hundreds of times but from now on it was going to be with an added piece of knowledge.

“Well, Dad, how are you this morning?” I asked him. “I’ve just found out something about you!”

The expression on his face didn’t change – if it had I would have thought I was in Harry Potter country – but the eyes looked out at me, smiling. His silence about that year in France now took on another meaning. We had assumed that his reticence had to do with the horrors he’d seen or the friends he’d lost. I knew now that there had been another reason. What a pity we had not been able to talk about it. Perhaps if Mum had gone before him he might have let it out but that hadn’t been the case. She had survived him by four years and he would never have talked about something like that while she was still alive.

Next problem. How do I tell Mike and Heather? I had asked Pierre if he was aware that he had acquired, apart from me, another younger brother and a sister. He had known, he had told me, and I suggested he leave it to me and I would organise the breaking of the news to them. The question was “What was the best way to do that?”

Heather was eighteen months younger than me and we had been close playmates as children. We had, however, gone to different schools and different universities so our paths had separated. We remained good long-distance friends, seeing each other two or three times a year. Her world was very different from mine but we kept in touch. She had married a farmer and lived in the centre of the country outside Doune, where she had dedicated her life to her two kids and a never-ending collection of horses. She had always been keen on horses and had studied veterinary science at Edinburgh. It was through her work that she had met Oliver and that had settled her life for her. I wasn’t sure what her reaction would be.

Mike was a very different kettle of fish. Mike had come along six years after Heather, so he was my junior by seven and a half years, a difference which had meant that we had shared very little when we were young. When I was discovering the fair sex he was still playing with his Lego.

But we had both inherited the combativity and competitiveness of our father, expressed through different outlets. I confess to have done reasonably well at my rugby and cricket and had found that I could turn my hand to most sports. Mike also had that gift but took up pursuits that I had not – squash, hockey, biking and the like. The only area where we had a real common interest – and that developed later – was on the golf course.

Mike had gone into the army. He had discovered that if he joined up as a student he could earn a salary whilst studying. The only commitment he had had to make was to stay in the service for seven years after graduating. This didn’t bother him at all and he had stayed on after his seven years and carved out a satisfactory career for himself. He had been able to retire in his fifties with a perfectly adequate pension.