sure how to say this.’ And then Patrick started trembling and choked on his words. This man who never buckled, who marched forward through life scoffing at sentimental ‘frippery’ as he called it. Who carried great kindness in his heart but also great detachment. ‘The thing is…’ But no one could hear what the thing was because Patrick’s words seemed to stick before dissolving into sobs.
Victor looked both mortified and terrified and Phoebe rushed over to Patrick and put her arm round his shoulder, ‘Dad! Dad! It’s all right. Mum, you tell him.’
And I had to. Right there and then. I thought about Ginny’s letter, the confidence she’d shown in me and forced myself to take control. Somehow the words came to me, gracious and warm as though I’d finally given into the fact that families are complicated, complex entities and all we can do is cling on and hope that a couple of the stitches hold and something damaged and decrepit but still in one piece gets off at the other end of the ride. I reached over to Victor and held his hand. ‘This might be a shock to you, love, but before Patrick married me, he had a relationship with your mum and you’re actually his son.’
I decided to stick with the ‘relationship’ stretching of the truth and justify it as post-projecting a good example. It just sounded way too shabby to say, ‘Your dad had a one-night stand with your mum.’ I figured a bit of poetic licence was allowed.
And saying out loud those words, which had been sitting like a sore in my heart, refusing to respond to the antibiotic of reason, seemed to alleviate my own hurt. Despite everything, I registered a flash of pleasure at delivering news that might help Victor find a steady footing in the world again.
Victor sat there for a second, his eyes flicking from side-to-side as though it was some elaborate joke. He glanced at Patrick, then at Phoebe, who, bless her, looked as though she was going to implode with delight.
Victor blinked for a few seconds. ‘Wow.’ He pointed to himself. ‘Blue eyes.’ As though that fact alone should have flagged up his parentage long ago.
I forced myself on. ‘It’s a lot to take in. You’re probably only just about beginning to process losing your mum. And now you’ve discovered a new dad.’
Phoebe burst in, ‘And a sister!’ and my heart rushed out a protective plea that Victor would embrace that idea out loud and in a way that would make Phoebe included in this new family dimension. She backtracked. ‘Half-sister.’
He looked dazed but managed to say, ‘That’s cool. Really cool. A sister.’ I loved him for not reiterating the half-sister, for emphasising the uniting rather than the dividing factor. And the accompanying look of pride on Phoebe’s face.
Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. Patrick’s mannerisms to a T, the slow measured response to life-changing information. I couldn’t help thinking that if Ginny’s DNA had been in charge of this particular aspect of his personality, there would have been a livelier soundtrack, probably The Gipsy Kings, or Freddie Mercury singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, a leap onto the table for a bit of Scaramouche strutting.
I reached over to Patrick who was flapping his hand in front of his face, saying, ‘Sorry, mate. Sorry, can’t get my words out.’
Suddenly though, Victor’s face broke into a smile so radiant, so like Ginny, that it was like one of those weird films where the actors are revived and recast years after their deaths.
At this, Patrick gathered himself, stood up and, just like they’d been doing it forever, they moved into an unashamed from-my-heart-to-yours hug. And then we were all cuddling and crying and Patrick was saying, ‘I love my family, love it. I’m a lucky, lucky man,’ as though we’d all been successfully excavated from the foundations of a building flattened by a tornado.
And in that glorious melee of disbelief from Victor, ownership from Phoebe – ‘The rugby boys will have to invite me to their parties now’ – and a maelstrom of gratitude from Patrick – ‘Thanks, Jo, thank you. You’re just so brilliant, I couldn’t do this without you’ – I felt a surge of love and compassion for this brave boy. The clanging bell of jealousy calling my attention to all the possible reasons to be insecure had withered down to a tinkling ring of concern, covered – but not yet smothered – by optimism.
Patrick raised his mug of