Mrs. Mary Metcalfe put down the letter that had arrived with the last post before Christmas and frowned. She automatically reached out and sipped her cup of breakfast tea; her mind busy with the problem that had just presented itself. Across the table, her husband was reading the sports pages of the paper, and grunting moodily at the news of the latest cricketing debacle.

“Charles,” she said, to attract his attention.

“Hmm? I don’t know what things are coming to, Mary. These fellows can’t seem to hit a single ball without handing a catch to the slip fielders. Wasn’t like it my day, you know?”

“No, Charles; I’m sure England ruled the cricket field as surely as they did the waves in those dim and distant days.”

General Metcalfe lowered the paper and stared at his wife. He recognised that tone of voice and seeing the expression on her face, he folded the paper away. “Something up, old girl?”

“Read this.” She reached across and handed him the single sheet of paper.

The colour drained from Charles Metcalfe’s face and flooded back as he got to the end and lowered the letter. “Well, we knew it had to come one day, Mary.”

“Paul will be here this afternoon. He’s coming home for Christmas, Charles; have you forgotten?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve been looking forward to seeing him as much as you have. But I’ve never understood why you’ve always wanted to keep the truth from him; at least, once he was old enough to understand, anyway. He was always going to find out one day, my dear.”

Mary stood and walked to the window, looking out at the garden that surrounded her home.

“Because it will break his heart to discover he won’t inherit Longwood.”

“Paul’s got more gumption than to let something as inconsequential as that upset him,” her husband asserted. He swivelled in his chair and saw his wife raise a hand to her face as her tears started to flow.

He went across to her and reached out to turn her into his strong arms. “There, there, old girl. There’s no doing anything about it. We should have told him when he was a youngster, but … well, there never seemed to be a right moment.”

She nodded her head against his chest, unable to speak.

“Mary, come on, my dear, you mustn’t let this upset you so much. Paul’s more likely to get upset at you being upset, than he is with the truth. He’s more than man enough to cope with the facts, of that I have no doubt.” He tilted her chin and looked down into her anguished face. “Our son’s a credit to us both, my dear.”

“Will he ever forgive us, Charles?”

“I’m sure he will,” Charles Metcalfe said with a conviction he hoped was justified.

The route to Winchester was familiar to both men. Adam Svenson had visited the Metcalfes’ home many times and now he took the wheel as they left the small, Georgian country house that was the home of Lord and Lady Simms, and headed westwards.

Beside him, Paul Metcalfe twiddled the dial of the radio. It crackled into life.

“With everything to play for on this final day, the English batsmen are looking determined, as Gupta comes into bowl from the commentary box end.”

“Oh, no,” the American protested. “I don’t want to listen to cricket commentary all the way to Winchester! Find something else, or turn it off.”

“But-”

“No buts, Paul. That incontrovertibly constitutes ‘cruel and unusual’ treatment.” Svenson glanced at his friend and saw he was about to try wheedling. “Save your breath. I’m implacable. Turn it off.”

“Huh, I should’ve known better that to invite a damn Yankee to spend Christmas with me. I wouldn’t have asked you, but Doc Fawn said he was busy.” He grinned at his friend and flicked the switch off. “Can I at least check in, every 10 or 15 minutes, for the score?”

Svenson groaned. “If you must.”

“I must, I must! If I get home and don’t know what’s happened, what am I going to talk to my father about?”

“Well, there is that, I guess. But, I never figured that you and your dad have trouble making conversation, Paul.”

“We don’t – but if we don’t immediately start a conversation about the cricket, my mother will take over. As it is, she knows that cricket is too important to interrupt.”

“Hmm, but doesn’t that mean that, if she can’t talk to you, she’ll talk to me instead?” Adam said reflectively. “And I can guess exactly what she’ll talk to me about.”

He knew Mrs Metcalfe of old; she and his own mother had formed a friendship based on their sons’, and regularly swapped information about whatever was going on in the lives of their children. They almost seemed to compete for the latest - and juiciest – bits of gossip.

“Oh, you won’t escape her attention, you know that. Sooner or later we’re both going to have to answer questions like: ‘why didn’t you invite those nice girls to come with you?’ and ‘when are you thinking of getting married?’ Still, if she asks you the moment you arrive, it’ll be over and done with, and you can relax. If I’m not talking cricket with Dad, she’ll start with me, and she might nag me for days… Do you want that torment hanging over your head all Christmas?”

“No,” Adam replied, shaking his head vehemently and adding, “But, if I’d wanted that sort of third degree, I’d have gone home to Boston. I kinda hoped I’d escape it in Winchester.”

“You’re so naive sometimes, it amazes me. The combination of you - or me, no possible means of escape, and my – or your – mother, inevitably leads to discussions about when we’re going to settle down with some nice girl or other, and their longing for grandchildren.”

“Ah, but my mother already has grandchildren,” Adam reminded him.

“A mere bagatelle; mothers can never have too many grandchildren - it’s a well-known fact. Are you telling me your mother never even hints that she expects you to start breeding in the near future?”

Adam grimaced and shook his head.

Paul smiled. “Good, because I wouldn’t have believed you. If you ask me, it must be in-bred into them. As soon as they become mothers they start imagining grandchildren, and once you’ve started shaving, they become fixated with the prospect!”

“Oh, boy, does that present a real strange impression of your adolescent home-life, Paul,” Adam teased, grinning from ear to ear.

“Anyway, as I was saying, weigh it up, Blue-boy: if you listen to the cricket you can get the third degree over and done with on our arrival or, sing-a-long to the radio now and have to live with the knowledge, possibly for days to come, that you’re going to get grilled anyway. Either way, you won’t escape having to reveal all your intimate secrets to my mother...”

“Who will immediately tell my mother…”

“Yep, and with a great sense of achievement,” Paul confirmed, with a solemn nod of his head. “Face it: they have us surrounded, Adz. There’s no escape.”

Adam chuckled as he swung the car out into the motorway traffic. The very fact that his friend had used his family’s nickname for him, rather than his usual Blue-boy, reinforced the feeling of being off-duty, and enhanced the sense of freedom he felt.

“Oh, go on then, turn the damn commentary on,” he said genially. “You deserve it after that misanthropic tour de force. And I’d rather listen to that, than have you going on and on complaining all the way there.”

“Yes!” Paul punched the air and threw the switch.

Mary Metcalfe finished making the bed in the guest room and turned the edge of the duvet down. She put the clean towels on the end of the bed and made sure there were enough coat hangers in the cupboard. With a final swirl of her finger in the bowl of dried pot-pourri that scented the air, she left the room, leaving the door ajar.

Although she had finished preparing her son’s bedroom before she started on the guest room, she went back in now and stood looking around her. Paul had used this room ever since he was a child; he loved the view over the gardens and although it had been redecorated several times, there were still traces of his youthful enthusiasms. A small shelf of treasured scrap books, a collection of military models and several volumes of a part-magazine on World War II. In one corner was the signed team poster he’d won in a competition run by the Arsenal Fan Club. And, on the wall over the dresser, there were a few select photos – long-gone pets, his first pony, his first car – and a rare one of him with both of his parents at his graduation ceremony from Winchester University.

There was also a more recent and very charming picture of her son with his close friends, Adam, Karen and Dianne, against a backdrop of the luxuriant hothouse foliage on Cloudbase’s Promenade Deck.

Mary was one of the few civilians to have visited Spectrum’s floating headquarters, and she was proud that her son was the security organisation’s premier agent, codenamed Captain Scarlet. His tall, blond-haired, American friend was his field partner, Captain Blue, while the young women served as Angel Pilots, using the charming codenames of Symphony and Rhapsody. Even for the wife of a military commander used to keeping secrets, keeping quiet about her son’s exemplary service to the World Government was a struggle.

The reports that peppered the news would mention the codenames of the agents, but Spectrum made strenuous efforts to keep individual identities confidential, and consequently the tabloid press was full of speculation as to the true identity of these brave men and women. Sometimes their speculation was so wide of the mark that Mary itched to put them right.

Finally, in pride of place, there was a detailed pen and ink drawing of Longwood, which he’d done for a school project, and which she’d had framed for him as it was so good.

Her heart sank. She sat on the edge of his bed and looked around her, memories crowding into her mind of her son as he grew up. She sighed.

Has it all been a lie? I know we should have told him, but we were so happy, the three of us, it was as if there was no need. Surely, Charles and I paid our dues? How can this happen to us all now?

She sat there, oblivious of the passing hours, until she heard her husband’s voice floating up the stairs.

“Mary? The car’s just turned into the drive. They’re here, my dear.”

With a deep sigh, Mary Metcalfe stood and brushed the moisture from her eyes. She gathered her duster and the spray can of polish, told herself to snap out of it and, by the time she reached the hallway and her husband opened the door to let the hysterical dogs run out to meet the newcomers, she was herself again.

Whoa!” Paul chided the deliriously excited dogs as they pranced around his legs and jumped up, leaving muddy paw-marks on his denim jeans. He looked up laughing, and smiled at his parents.

“We surrender! Call these vicious beasts off,” he pleaded playfully.

“Heel!” General Metcalfe shouted, and the pair of young Labradors and the elderly spaniel rushed to his side, panting.

“It’s safe to get out of the car now, Adam,” Paul said, glancing with some condescension towards his friend.

The American had rolled down the window to call a greeting to his host and hostess, but he’d made no attempt to leave the safety of the driver’s seat.

Laughing, Adam clambered out, stretching his considerable frame as he did so.

“Did you have a good drive?” General Metcalfe asked.

“Yes, surprisingly good. We made good time,” Adam replied.

“He drove like a man possessed,” Paul chipped in, as he opened the boot to get the luggage. “I feared for my life at times.”

“I wanted to spend as little time as possible listening to that cricket on the radio,” Adam retorted.

“What a debacle!” General Metcalfe said, reaching out to accept Adam’s outstretched hand and give it a hearty shake. “After such a poor showing, I wonder how the top-order batsmen will be able to show their faces back home.”

Adam nodded. “I guessed by Paul’s comments that they’d lost.”

“By an innings and eighty runs,” the general complained, wagging a finger in Adam’s face, unable to contain his frustration any longer. “It’s a disgrace! England were outplayed and outmanoeuvred in every aspect of the game. Their performance on the final day smacked of irresponsibility. I can’t remember the last time I saw such a poor display. Why, Paul’s old school team could’ve made a better job than that team of so-called professionals!”

“That’s too bad,” Adam sympathised, now totally bewildered.

Mary came to his rescue and enfolded him in a hug. “Nice to see you again, Adam. Come inside and have some tea: and I mean food tea, not liquid tea. I’ve bought some of that nice coffee you like, just for you.”

“Hey, what about helping me with the luggage?” Paul called out, seeing his friend walking indoors with his mother.

Mary turned. “Guests don’t carry their own luggage, Paul. Give him a hand, Charles.”

“Yes, my dear.”

Adam grinned at Paul and gave an unrepentant shrug as he allowed Mrs Metcalfe to take his arm and steer him towards the door. Paul had to laugh to himself as he heard his mother’s clear voice saying:

“And how’s that nice young woman of yours, Adam? You know, the last time she called, your mother was asking me why you weren’t bringing her here for Christmas; she’s worried that you’d had some sort of falling out, so I said I’d be sure to ask you what was going on …”

Mrs Metcalfe cleared the plates from the dining table and stacked them in the ancient dish-washer before following her men-folk into the living room. Paul was sprawled on the old sofa, with the dogs clustered around him, while his father sat in his usual armchair by the fire, and lectured the younger men on the finer points of training gun dogs.

Adam was sitting in the chair she usually occupied, opposite the general, his long legs stretched out and a decidedly sleepy look on his face.

“Can I get anyone a drink?” she asked, as her husband paused and rose to fetch a book from the library, with the intention of illustrating some point he was making.

“No thank you, ma’am. I couldn’t eat or drink another mouthful,” Adam said politely. “That was a fine meal, Mrs Metcalfe.”

“I’m stuffed, Mum,” Paul replied, adding, “Is there anything you want me to do? After such a magnificent spread, you deserve to put your feet up. I can fetch whatever’s needed.”

“No, I’ve done it all, thank you, Paul. Move over and let me sit down.”

“You know, I think Christmas Eve is my favourite night of the year,” her son said, as she pushed the dogs out of the way and sat beside him. “I mean, here I am with my nearest and dearest, and I’ve eaten more food in one meal than I’ve eaten all year! I can look forward to a long, uninterrupted night’s sleep and in the morning, we get presents!”

Adam chuckled.

“You don’t want to go to Midnight Mass, then, Paul?” his father asked, returning from the library in time to hear this statement.

“Oh. Well, I’ll come with you, if you’re planning to go?”

Mary shook her head. “Not this year.”

Paul looked across at his friend. “You want to go?”

“I don’t think I could walk far enough,” Adam admitted. “I ate almost as much as you.”

Paul chuckled. “You look half asleep.”

“Only half? I’d have said about three-quarters. Unlike some I could mention, I was on duty all day yesterday, don’t forget.”

“Can I help it if you squander your leave on weekend breaks with Karen?”

Adam pulled a face, but said nothing.

“Oh, please don’t stand on any ceremony with us, Adam-dear,” Mary said. She had a way of running the words together that made it sound like it was his name. “You take yourself off to bed, as soon as you need to.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, Mrs Metcalfe, I will go up. I promised Karen I’d ring and I ought to call home too.” He glanced at the clock. “I might catch them all before they disperse for the evening if I ring now.”

“Of course, my dear,” Mary said. “Use our video phone if you want…?”

“Thanks, but I have a cell phone.” The American rose slowly and bade them all good night.

As the door closed behind him, Mary glanced at her son. “Will he be all right?”

“Adam? Of course he will. He’ll be billing and cooing with Karen until the batteries go flat on his phone. It does no good getting between those two.”

Mary sniffed. “Well, you could have brought her here – her and Dianne.”

“Mum, we’ve been through this. Dianne’s parents wanted to see her this year, and Karen agreed to go with her. It seems her mother is going to Florida to visit her own mother over Christmas, so she was at a loose end. And before you even suggest it, Mum: there was no way – absolutely no way – Adam and Karen would have come here for a dirty weekend.”

“Paul, I’m sure they don’t do such a thing,” she chided affectionately. He grinned at her, his sapphire-blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Besides, I would have put them in separate rooms,” Mary lied primly.

He laughed. “Then it’d have been like a Whitehall Farce with people creeping down darkened landings in the dead of night!”

“Actually, I’m glad we have you alone, son,” his father said, once the laughter had died down. “There’s something we have to tell you.”

He was standing in front of the fire, the book he’d fetched clasped tightly in his hand. Alarmed at the sombre tone of his father’s words, Paul’s expression sobered and he sat a little straighter.

“What is it? Is something wrong? You’re both okay, aren’t you?”

“We’re fine,” Mary reassured him. “It’s nothing like that.”

Paul exhaled a long breath. “Good. You had me worried.”

Mary laid a hand on his arm and leant back on the sofa; her gaze was focused on her husband and the general was looking none too composed as he contemplated his wife and child.

“Dad, for heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?” Paul asked, starting to be really worried by their behaviour.

“Paul, your mother and I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” General Metcalfe began.

“You are ill!” his son exclaimed, turning to his mother with anguish on his face.

“No, darling, we’re fine. Listen to your father, please. This isn’t easy for either of us, Paul.”

He settled back and nodded, but his hand clutched his mother’s.

“You know that your mother’s family lived across the valley, don’t you, Paul?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, long before you were born, I was courting Paul Blake’s daughter.”

“My mother, yes, I know.”

“No, Paul. Not your mother. Her sister, your aunt – my first wife – Victoria Blake.

“What?” Paul’s voice edged upwards in surprise. “I don’t even have an Aunt Victoria.” He looked at his mother in confusion. “What ‘first wife’? I don’t understand…”

“Listen,” his mother said.

General Metcalfe met his son’s fierce gaze with composure. “I know we should have told you about this before now; but understand, Paul, we’ve lived most of our lives in this small community, and some things – well, you don’t talk about them.”

He looked at Mary for support, and at her quietly confident nod, he began to explain.

“I joined the army at eighteen and, after my training, I was posted to London. There I met Victoria Blake, a young woman I’d known all my life. We’d gone to school together. I was lonely and homesick, and Victoria – well, she was a beautiful woman. Not as beautiful as your mother, but beautiful enough.”

Mary smiled affectionately at him and he returned her smile before continuing.

“As young people do when they’re away from home for the first time, Victoria and I had a relationship, and I, for one, was committed to it whole-heartedly. I was happy when she discovered she was pregnant. My parents weren’t that pleased, and nor was your grandfather Blake – he thought we were both too young for the responsibility of a child. But, despite that, Victoria and I got married in Wandsworth Registry Office and set up home in a small flat in London. I worked hard, determined to get promotion so that I could better provide for my family.”

Paul shifted uneasily and looked from one to the other. His mother’s expression showed her unease, and he realised with a jolt of surprise that her concern was for his father, rather than for him.

The general continued, “In my quest for promotion, I accepted a posting abroad before the baby was born, and, in what I can only assume was a fit of pique, Victoria refused to ask any of her family to stay with her, and had him alone in a London hospital. She complained bitterly about being deserted, and badgered me to get her accommodation where I was stationed at the time. I couldn’t, it wasn’t safe, but when my tour of duty finished and I came home, it was to a very angry young woman and a baby I didn’t know. We were given married quarters, but Victoria hated them. After a few months, she packed her things and went home to her family.”

Mary stirred and said, “I remember her coming home with the baby. She was angry, and there were rows all the time. She was frustrated by army life, but she didn’t want to know what she could do to make it any better for herself and Ronnie.”

“Ronnie?” Paul interjected.

“Your brother, Ronald,” Mary explained. “Charles came home to reason with her, but she’d had enough, she said. She packed up and left, taking Ronnie with her.”

Paul’s frown deepened. “Where did she go? What happened? I mean, how did you two…?”

“She went to Canada with a man she’d met in London. Probably the man she should have married all the time,” Charles Metcalfe said. “Two years later, I got papers filing for divorce. It went through on the nod. I haven’t seen her, or the boy, since.”

Mary took up the story.

“By then we were seeing a lot of each other. I felt… responsible, in some way, for your father’s unhappiness. I wanted to help him regain his usual joie de vivre.” She smiled at her husband and rose to go to his side, slipping her arm through his.

They stood, united in their love, and studied the young man on the sofa, who meant the world to them both.

“I had loved your father for many years, Paul. I was too young for him to notice me before he went into the army, but as time went on, we realised that we were both very much in love. We spoke to your grandfather, explaining our predicament: we wanted to get married. Your Metcalfe grandparents were opposed to it, although there was no legal reason to prevent us, they felt that it was somehow… immoral, I think?” She glanced at her husband and he shrugged.

“My mother’s people came down heavy-handed on the ‘religious’ reasons why we shouldn’t. But I think they would have done that whoever I’d wanted to marry: whom God joined, let no man put asunder, and all that. I don’t think my mother felt as strongly about it as her family did. She was more concerned that I’d found the right woman this time. And my father wanted to see the family line stretching into perpetuity, I think. Besides, you were always his favourite, Mary, love.”

She nodded. “I remember having a discussion with your mother and pointing out that, as you’d married Vicky in a registry office, it might not count.”

The general laughed and Paul gave a wry smile.

Mary continued, “My father said that, if we did decide to marry - and he never advised us to do so - we should act as if the first marriage had never happened. After all, Vicky had been the one to leave, and she’d made no attempt to contact any of the family since then. We married in Gibraltar, when your father was posted abroad again, and we’ve never had any regrets. We’ve been so happy: a happiness that grew beyond all imagination, when you were born, darling.”

Paul drew in a deep breath. “Why tell me all this now? I mean you’ve kept quiet about it for more than thirty-five years.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, although he was struggling to understand why he felt betrayed.

“We received a letter from Ronald this morning. He’s coming to see his father. In fact, he’s coming tomorrow, Paul.”

Paul spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning in his bed, going through the news and the discussions he’d had with his parents, before, tired and drained, they had left him sitting by the dying embers of the fire.

The implications of what they had told him had taken some time to seep into his consciousness. His first reaction had been anger that this unknown man – this spectre from his father’s past - could dare to intrude into their family Christmas. He felt absurdly protective of his mother and father and resentful that they’d had their equilibrium upset by this news.

It was later, as he lay sleepless in his bedroom, that he felt some pity for himself. He thought back over his life and tried to come to terms with the fact that his parents had kept something like this from him. What good telling him as a child would have done, he couldn’t see, but surely he’d had a right to know once he was a man.

It was only then as he thought of his ‘rights’ that the wider implications of the news dawned on him. He wasn’t his father’s eldest son, and, therefore, not his father’s undisputed heir.

Not his heir: not the heir to Longwood.

The impact of that hit him like a weight and he felt his heart pounding in his chest. He got out of bed and rested his feverish brow against the cold window pane.

His home.

Everything he’d ever longed for, and all that had become so much more important since his Mysteronisation, was centred on this place. His home, where he wanted to bring his wife, one day, and maybe watch his own kids growing up.

Only it wasn’t his. It was Ronnie’s.

He was still gazing out of the window when a gentle tap on his door broke his concentration and he turned to see Adam’s fair head peering round.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. “I thought you were awake. Can I come in?”

“Of course. Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

“No, my brother did.”

“What?” Paul’s hyper-sensitive mind latched onto those ominous-sounding words.

“David rang to wish me a ‘happy Christmas’, from what sounded like a riotous party. I pointed out that it was just gone five a.m. here, and he thought that was hysterically funny.” Adam sighed. “It’s at times like these that I envy you being an only child,” he said ruefully.

“Well, don’t, because I’m not,” Paul snapped.

“What are you talking about?”

Adam’s face was a picture as Paul told him the basic facts of his new-found brother’s existence. As his friend’s voice trailed into silence, Adam asked, “He’s coming here, today?”

“So my mother said. She had a letter from him.”

“Well, that’s a facer, and no mistake.”

After a few minutes’ silent contemplation, Adam said, “Look, would you rather I left? I can go to a hotel-”

“No! I don’t want his arrival to make any difference to anything. If you leave, it’s bound to upset my mother.”

“But Paul, surely this is a personal, family thing? I’ll be in the way.”

“You won’t, Adam. As far as I’m concerned, you’re more of a brother to me than this ‘Ronnie’ could ever be!”

Adam hesitated. His friend was markedly disconcerted by these surprising revelations, but the thought that his presence might cause embarrassment to the Metcalfes was an equally strong argument for leaving. He saw Paul swallow convulsively as he stared back at him, and knew what he had to do. Paul couldn’t ask him to stay, it was not in his nature to do so, but he wanted him to.

“Okay, whatever you think is for the best, Paul. I’ll be around for just as long as you want me here, buddy; but the moment I’m in the way, just say the word, and I’ll go. Promise me?”

Paul nodded, relief washing over his face. “Sure thing, Blue-boy.” He ran his hand through his hair and across his unshaven chin. “How about a cup of tea?”

“Sure,” Adam agreed. He knew enough about the English to understand that drinking a hot beverage was the universal panacea for times of stress and high emotion.

He followed Paul from the room and down to the kitchen, where his somewhat distracted friend made them both cups of strong tea, and – for once – Adam drank it without protest.

They gathered around the Christmas tree after breakfast, and Mrs Metcalfe handed out the presents, but the genial excitement and relaxed atmosphere of yesterday had evaporated, and it was a painful display of merely going through the motions.

Adam had added the ones he’d bought with him on his arrival, and there were gifts for him amongst the gaily-coloured pile as well. He tried to remain cheerful, but the tension amongst the Metcalfes was palpable and Paul almost monosyllabic in both his responses, and his thanks for the gifts he received. Mrs Metcalfe looked drawn, as if she hadn’t slept well either, and the general, usually unaffected by moments of emotional stress, was obviously on edge as well.

Adam folded the wrapping paper from the last present Mrs Metcalfe had given him, and sighed. I wish Ronnie Metcalfe would just get here and put us all out of our misery, he thought.

But it was late morning, and the aroma of cooking was starting to drift through the house, before Paul’s sharp hearing picked up the noise of an approaching car.

“He’s coming,” he said, walking to the window and watching as the dark, hatchback car pulled up on the drive.

His mother came to stand beside him, and took hold of his hand, squeezing his fingers.

The doorbell chimed, making them all jump slightly.

When none of the Metcalfes moved, Adam said, “I’ll go,” and he was out of the room before Mrs Metcalfe could respond.

He opened the front door, feeling absurdly nervous.

A smartly, if somewhat conventionally, dressed man, whose age Adam guessed at around forty, was standing on the top step. He frowned as he saw the tall, blond man inside the house.

“This is the Metcalfe house?” he asked with some uncertainty. He had a Canadian accent, and his voice was pitched slightly higher than Paul’s, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

“Yes, it is. And you must be Ronald Metcalfe?” The man acknowledged that with a nod. “Come inside, they’re in the living room.” Adam opened the door wider for the newcomer to enter. “Please go on in.”

“And you are?” Ronald asked, his curiosity piqued as much by the appearance of this stranger as by the unexpected American accent.

“Adam Svenson; I’m a friend of Paul’s and he invited me to spend Christmas here. I’m just trying to make myself useful,” he added.

Ronald nodded. “Thank you,” he murmured as Adam directed him towards the lounge.

As he crossed the hallway, Ronald’s gaze darted around the impressive building. The door Svenson had indicated was ajar and he could see that the room was occupied. Pushing it open, he walked into the room and faced his family for the first time.

Paul was standing next to his mother who had gone to her husband’s side. The three of them looked anxiously at the newcomer for a long moment, before Mary came to her senses and advanced towards him, her hand outstretched.

“Hello, Ronald. Welcome to Longwood,” she said. “I’m Mary Metcalfe.”

The man shook her hand and responded politely, “Pleased to meet you, Aunt Mary.”

She credited him with tact for the way he had dealt with the difficult question of their relationship, and smiled. “Come and meet your father, and your brother,” she encouraged him, studying the man before her.

Her first impression was that he wasn’t quite as tall as Paul, and his hair was the dark brown of the Blakes rather than the black of the Metcalfes. He wore a pair of spectacles that emphasised the size of his blue eyes, and as he dropped her hand, he pushed the glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, with an automatic gesture.

She stood aside slightly and guided Ronald towards his father.

Charles Metcalfe cleared his throat and a faint blush started to mount in his neck and face.

“Hello, Ronald,” he managed to say, his voice somewhat strangled by his emotion. “Welcome home, son.”

“Hello, Father.”

The pair shook hands and Charles turned to his right to say, “This is Paul – your brother.”

Adam, hovering by the door so that he didn’t get in the way, watched with concerned interest to see how Paul would react, but he needn’t have worried. Decades of instilled politeness fired up in Paul and he held out his hand towards the newcomer.

“Hello there, Ronnie.”

“Paul.”

They shook hands.

Introductions over, there was a collective releasing of pent-up breath and the tension decreased.

“Please, sit down, Ronald – or do you prefer Ronnie?” Mary asked. “You must be tired after your journey; can I get you anything, a cup of tea, something to eat?”

“Ronnie’s fine,” he replied, “and I’m really not that tired actually. I’ve been in the country for almost three weeks, and I spent the night at a hotel in Winchester, so the drive wasn’t far. But, a coffee would be nice. Thank you.”

“Coffee? Of course! Adam-dear, would you give me a hand?”

“Sure, ma’am.”

In the kitchen Mary took a moment to sag against the wall and sigh out her remaining tension. She smiled up into Adam’s sympathetic face and placed a hand on his arm.

“Well, that’s the worst of it over. Thank you, dear, you were a great help.”

“I didn’t do anything except open the door.” He smiled, going to fill the kettle for her, as she bustled about sorting out the tea service and preparing the coffee.

“That isn’t true, and you know it. You’ve been there for Paul – as you always seem to be - I know how much he relies on you, and I appreciate it, probably even more than he does,” she said, as she set the coffee filter going.

“Hey, believe me, I rely on him just as much,” Adam assured her, as visions of the many times Captain Scarlet had saved his life at the loss of his own, flashed into his mind’s eye.

She turned to him and concern saddened her face. “He’s changed since he joined Spectrum, Adam; there’s an underlying sadness in him that never used to be there. I’ve wondered if it was because of his relationship with Dianne, but then, when I see them together, he’s almost like his old self and I know it can’t be that that’s making him sad.”

She glanced at the young man and pleaded, “I’m not asking you to betray confidences, Adam-dear, and I know you wouldn’t anyway, but I worry about him so much. You remember the Christmas you were here, and Paul got trapped in that secret room in the attic? Charles told me then that Paul had been infected by some alien virus. Now, I believe him, of course, only, I swear, when I mentioned it to Doctor Fawn, he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

Adam looked away and traced his finger over the top of the coffee jar rather than meet her questioning glance.

“And now there’s all this with Ronnie. I know we should have told Paul before now, but Victoria never made contact with either of us once she left, and Charles ...” She sighed. “I suppose he preferred to forget it had ever happened - my sister was not the easiest person to get along with. Rightly or wrongly, we felt that Paul might suffer if the fact that his father had married his ex-wife’s sister was common gossip. You live in a big city, but here, in a small country village, notoriety can make life unbearable. I couldn’t have forgiven myself if anything we’d done had made things difficult for Paul. After a while, we almost forgot we hadn’t told him about it, and it became much harder to find a way of starting to tell him.” She sighed. “He loves this place so much and the thought of losing it-”

“Why would he lose it?”

“At the very least, the estate would have to be split between Charles’ sons, and Paul might not get the house, or, if he did, he wouldn’t get the money to maintain it,” she explained.

The kettle boiled and she made the tea and filled the coffee mugs with the filter coffee.

“Wasn’t that always the case?” Adam asked.

Mary shook her head. “Charles didn’t include Ronnie in his earlier will. It was wrong, we know, but we had no idea where the boy was,” she added defensively.

Adam pursed his lips thoughtfully. The Metcalfes seemed to have made a conscious decision to ignore the disastrous first marriage and its resultant offspring. Coming from a family that had more internal wars going on amongst the members than most, he could understand both the appeal of doing that, and the futility.

Nevertheless, he tried to reassure her as best he could. “Paul is Spectrum’s number one agent, Mrs Metcalfe. He’s tireless in the fight against the forces that would destroy our World as we know it. We’ve both seen enough things to make anyone sad, and yet, we carry on. I couldn’t do the job Captain Scarlet does.”

Mary looked at him with an anxious expression, and he smiled.

“I’m sure he’ll cope with this news as well as he does everything life throws at him. It may be a cliché, ma’am, but your son is a hero – pure and simple.”

She gave him a sweet smile and reached up to kiss his cheek. “You both are, in my eyes.” Adam blushed. “Now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to help me break the ice between Paul and his brother.”

“I’m glad to help, if I can.”

“I’m sure you can, even if it’s just keeping a conversation going. Would you carry the tray for me? Thank you, Adam-dear.”

When Mary opened the living room door, it wasn’t difficult to see that very little progress towards getting to know each other had been made by the three men during her absence. Paul was standing by the window, the general had returned to his armchair and Ronnie was perched on the sofa. The three dogs, which had gone over to sniff at his clothes, had then slunk away to Paul, and were now lying at his feet.

Mary glanced around and gestured to Adam to lay the tray down on the coffee table beside her armchair.

“Here we are,” she announced brightly. “Paul, come and have some tea. Ronnie, here is your coffee, please help yourself to milk and sugar. Adam takes his black, so I just put some extra in the milk jug.”

“Thank you, Aunt Mary.”

Once the procedure of dispensing the tea was over, and Paul was on the sofa beside his brother, Mary looked around the room.

“Well, this is pleasant, isn’t it?”

No one answered her. She sent a silent appeal to Adam, sitting behind the sofa on a straight-backed chair.

“Whereabouts are you from, Ronnie?” he asked. “I’m guessing that’s a Canadian accent.”

“Yeah. We moved about a good deal. My father – my step-father – is a regional manger for a national chain of stores. We moved around with his job. I guess we spent most time in Alberta, but right now, he’s based in Vancouver.”

“Goodness, that does sound interesting. Victoria always wanted to travel,” Mary said. “How is she, Ronnie?”

“She died last year, Aunt Mary. She had breast cancer.”

Mary’s face fell and she put her tea cup down. “Oh, my poor boy! Oh, Ronnie, I am so sorry. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you contact us then?”

“She made me promise not to. Mom could hold a grudge like no woman I’ve met.”

“And your stepfather? I’m afraid I don’t even know his name…”

“Mark. Mark Hutchinson. He’s okay. He retires next year.”

“Hutchinson?” Charles Metcalfe frowned. “That’s not the name of the man I remember.”

“I was about eight or nine when they got married,” Ronnie said. “Mom met him in Toronto.”

His father gave an understanding nod, but didn’t pursue the subject. Obviously Victoria’s relationship with her original lover hadn’t survived the move to Canada.

“We all lost track of Victoria,” Mary said sadly, thinking of her wayward sister. “She never contacted any of the family after our mother died.”

“No. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want me to come here either.”

“Why did you come?” Paul asked, unable to keep a note of petulance from his voice.

Ronnie turned his gaze on the younger man and replied, “I thought it was about time I got in touch.”

“And so it is,” Mary replied. “We’re so pleased that you did. Aren’t we, Charles?”

“Yes, yes of course we are,” the general replied.

There was a long silence.

“How long are you stopping here?” Paul asked suddenly and reacted to his mother’s glared reproof with an exasperated exclamation of: “What? I only asked!”

“Ronnie must stay for as long as he likes, Paul. Please, we’d be delighted if you’d stay – spend Christmas with us.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have any plans for after Christmas, Ronnie?” Adam asked, as he leant past the sofa to place his empty coffee cup on the tray.

“A few. I came over here on business.”

“What is it you do?” Adam indicated Paul. “We work for the World Government.”

“I’m a reporter. I work for the Global News Network.”

“Really?” Mary said, casting a brief, alarmed glance at her son. “That must give you plenty of chance to travel and meet such fascinating people.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, Aunt Mary.” For the first time his voice betrayed some emotion. “It doesn’t leave you much scope for a personal life, for a start. I was due to get married last year, but my fiancée thought better of a life with a husband who could be whisked away at a moment’s notice to report on some disaster or other.”

“Oh, Ronnie, that’s sad,” Mary said sympathetically.

“I guess you aren’t married either?” Ronnie turned to Paul, and for one brief second his glance flicked towards Adam.

Paul noticed and raised a dark eyebrow as he replied, “No, I’m not. It’s much the same as you described – we’re never in the same place long enough to plan a private life. Luckily, my fiancée works in the same part of the organization, so she understands. One day, we’ll get time to make it all official.”

“She’s not here with you?”

“No. She’s visiting her parents, and Adam’s fiancée is staying with her. If we get time – and it’s a pretty big if – the four of us plan to meet up in London, and welcome in the New Year along with the crowds, in Trafalgar Square.”

“And if I know the girls, they’ll want to hit the shops as well,” Adam interjected. He grimaced as he admitted, “My credit card’s already cowering at the mere thought of it.”

Paul grinned and turned, resting his arms on the back of the sofa as he replied. “Well, pity mine then!”

“Hey, I’ll swap you Karen’s shopping bill for Dianne’s any day.”

“No chance, Adz, that woman’s an Olympic Class spendthrift.”

“That’s a little unfair! She’s not that bad.”

“Compared to what? Imelda Marcos?”

Adam stifled his laughter and shook his head.

In the distance the kitchen timer chimed, and Mary got to her feet. “Lunch will be ready in about thirty minutes. I hope you will join us, Ronnie?”

“With pleasure; thank you for inviting me.”

“Good. Paul, set the table with an extra place. Maybe, after lunch we can take Ronnie, and the dogs, for a walk around the gardens? Walk off all the food you’ve been scoffing since you got home, young man. I do wonder where you put it all at times, Paul.”

The Christmas lunch went far better than anyone had expected. Ronald’s stiff attitude towards his father thawed slightly under the influence of the good food and wine, and the general, his self-confidence returning, was, as usual, an excellent host. Between them, Mary and Adam kept the conversation going, and Paul gradually lost his overt antagonism towards his half-brother.

Once everyone had had time to digest their meal, and, as the general had insisted, they’d all watched the traditional Royal Christmas Broadcast, Mary chivvied everyone into their coats and called the dogs for their daily walk.

The two Spectrum officers quickly out-stripped the others as they strode over the fields. They were kept occupied throwing an endless flow of balls for the Labradors to chase. The dogs dropped the retrieved, and increasingly slobbery, prizes at their feet and darted at them as encouragement for yet another chase.

Adam wiped drool off his fingers onto the frosty grass and seeing they were far enough ahead of the others not to be overheard, asked,

“You heard Ronnie say he was a reporter? Do you think we should worry?”

Paul threw the second ball and watched the dog streak after it before he replied.

“I don’t imagine he’s here after a story, do you? My father’s largely confined to an administrative desk job now, so he’s unlikely to have access to any kind of secrets a reporter for GNN would find interesting. There’s no way he could know we were even at the house, let alone who and what we are.”

“He said he’d been in the country for three weeks. I wonder what he’s been doing all that time.”

Paul looked at him and chuckled. “It’s at times like these that you make me remember you were a security agent. Relax.”

“Not just a security agent,” Adam replied, grimacing as he picked up the wet ball that had just been dropped at his feet again. He sent the ball spinning into the far distance and, with a joyful bark, the dog raced away. “I’m a Svenson. We get pestered by journalists all the time. Well, we do Stateside.”

“Yeah, he didn’t seem to pick up on that, did he? Maybe he doesn’t do financial or society stories?”

“He said he covered disasters,” Adam agreed. He stopped and examined the damp hems of his trouser legs. “If he gets a move on he can cover the disaster that’s about to happen to my pants if your dogs slobber over them any more.”

Paul laughed. “I suppose Svenson family pooches don’t slobber?”

“Oh, the ‘Svenson family pooches’ slobber all right - what they do not do, is get the chance to do it anywhere near my best cashmere-and-silk suit.”

“I told you to get changed.”

“Next time I’ll take your advice.”

They walked on for some way in companionable silence until Paul said, “If you’re really concerned about Ronnie, why not contact Cloudbase and have them run a check on him?”

“You mean you haven’t done that already?”

Paul shook his head. “It slipped my mind. I guess I was only thinking about this on a personal level.”

“Understandable enough.”

“You really think we should have him checked out?”

Adam shrugged. “I take it you’re not sensing anything about him?”

“No. That much did occur to me. The reappearance of long-hidden relatives would be a perfect opportunity for them.”

“Looking at him, I’d say he is who he claims to be. You certainly look like brothers.”

“Brothers, and cousins, don’t forget,” Paul said, kicking at the tennis ball for the dog waiting hopefully at his side.

“Is that a problem? I thought the British upper classes were all interbred because they always married their cousins, anyway?” Adam asked, with an innocent expression.

“No, that’s backwoods Americans.”

“Backwoods or backwards?”

“Woods – backwoods, cloth-ears.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my hearing; it must be your accent…”

They shared a laugh.

Mrs Metcalfe’s voice came faintly on the icy breeze. “We’re going back now! Don’t be long!”

Paul turned and waved an acknowledgement, before whistling to the dogs.

“I’ll check with Cloudbase when I go to change my suit,” Adam said matter-of-factly, as they trudged back towards the house.

“S.I.G., Captain Blue.”

The short winter day was almost over when they got back to Longwood. Adam slipped away to change his trousers, while Mary bustled off to the kitchen, and Charles Metcalfe went to deal with the dogs, leaving his sons alone for the first time. Paul and Ronnie sat in the armchairs on either side of the fire, thawing out from their walk.

Paul was trying to think of something to say when Ronnie asked casually:

“What exactly do you do for the World Government?”

“This and that.”

“Your mother told me you were a WAAF colonel, one of the youngest ever – if not ‘the’ youngest. She’s very proud of the fact.”

“Yes, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t encouraged to think along the lines of a military career. Mum must be the archetypal military wife,” Paul said proudly, before he remembered that Ronnie’s mother hadn’t found the life at all congenial.

“So, isn’t it a bit of a comedown after that to be a gofer for the World Government?”

Paul straightened up slightly as he detected a certain cynicism in Ronald’s question. “Depends what you want from life, I suppose.”

“And you discovered that you didn’t want a distinguished military career? Hardly the Metcalfe way, is it?”

“What do you know about the Metcalfes and their ways?” Paul snapped.

“Look, Paul, I’m as much a Metcalfe as you are – and, as it happens, as much a Blake. Circumstances may have meant that I’ve spent my life half a world away, but that doesn’t change who I am. I have a right to be here.”

Paul gave an exasperated sigh. “I know that! I’m just finding it hard to come to terms with; I can’t believe my parents kept quiet about what happened for so long. I mean, what were they thinking of?”

Ronnie shrugged. “I’m sure they did it for the best, Paul. My mother was honest with me about my father; I’ve always known who he was, and where he was. But, after he married her youngest sister, she wanted nothing more to do with him, and didn’t understand that I might.”

Ronnie pushed his glasses higher along his nose and gazed towards the fire. Paul’s sharp eyesight could pick out the flames reflected in the lenses.

Suddenly Ronald looked in his direction and their eyes met. “It’s hard growing up and feeling that part of you is missing; that the key to your identity and your heritage is somewhere you’ve never seen. Maybe you had the best of it, Paul? Not plagued by wondering what the people who were a part of your life – and yet not part of it – were like?”

Paul gave a slight shrug. “Could be, but right now, it doesn’t feel like it.” He studied the older man, noticing for the first time signs of weariness and disappointment in the face that reminded him so much of his maternal grandfather. “You left it a long time to get in touch,” he said. “You must’ve been here before – for your work – you could’ve ‘dropped by’.”

“I never felt the urge to come here – until now. Besides, my mother was dead set against it, don’t forget. Maybe this has something to do with losing her and my fiancée in quick succession? I’ve been taking stock of my life since last year and finally decided that I wanted to meet my biological father. If you can’t accept that, I’m sorry.”

Paul had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry; but I didn’t know you even existed until last night, when they told me. It’s rather a lot to take in all at once.”

“Yeah, I guess it must be.”

Paul stood and crossed the hearth, extending his hand. “I’d like us to be friends; for my own sake as much as my parents’.”

Ronnie stared at the hand for what seemed like an age, until Paul began to wonder if he would accept the offer of friendship after all. Then, he pushed his glasses high on the bridge of his nose again, and reached out his hand to shake Paul’s.

“I guess I’d like it too. Your mom reminds me of my mom a lot – which isn’t surprising, I guess.”

“None of my aunts ever spoke about Victoria – at least not to me,” Paul said. Memories of whispered conversations that ceased as he’d entered rooms floated back into his mind. “Do you have a picture?”

Ronnie nodded and drew a leather wallet from his jacket pocket. Paul studied the small, rather creased picture of an attractive, dark-haired woman, with blue eyes and a bright smile.

“She does look like my mum; you’re right.” He handed it back. “Thanks.”

“I guess our father runs true to type,” Ronnie said, slipping the wallet back.

Paul inclined his head, but said nothing. It was still too soon for him to discuss the matter objectively.

The door opened and Mary edged in, pulling a two-tiered, wheeled serving trolley, the bottom tier piled with sandwiches and scones with jam and cream. She smiled with genuine pleasure to see the young men talking together.

“Now, if we can only find Charles and Adam, we can all have some tea,” she announced.

Paul gave a theatrical groan. “Mum, you really are the most illogical woman! Before we went out you were accusing me of scoffing too much food, and now you want me to eat more?”

“I have never known a boy that can’t find room for a cream tea,” she said archly, and smiled.

Adam finished the last crumbs of scone on his plate and sighed. “Mrs Metcalfe, I’m going to need the next size up if you carry on like this,” he said ruefully, tugging the waistband of his jeans.

Mary smiled. “I’m sure you boys don’t eat properly when you’re at work. I can’t send you back there without making sure you’ve been well-fed.”

“For ‘well-fed’, read ‘stuffed stupid’,” Paul said. He had just finished his second scone.

“I agree with Paul,” Ronnie said. “Aunt Mary, you’re an excellent cook, but I can feel my arteries hardening as I sit here.”

She laughed, delighted at their teasing.

“Let me take the trolley back to the kitchen,” Adam said, rising to his feet. “I need to start working off today’s excesses right now.”

“No, really, Adam-dear,” Mary protested.

Adam ignored her and instead turned to his friend. “Paul, shift yourself, and give me a hand,” Adam said, catching his eye.

“Slave driver.”

Paul got to his feet and the pair left the room, dragging the tea trolley after them.

Safely out of earshot in the kitchen, Paul asked, “What did Cloudbase say?”

“He’s clean. He was working for GNN right up until last payday. No known discrepancies in what he’s told us. His mother died, like he said, and she was married to a Mark Hutchinson.”

Paul looked up from loading the dishwasher. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, I can hear it in your voice.”

“But, he resigned from GNN last month. He’s a freelance now.”

“He said he’d reassessed his life last year,” Paul reasoned. “Maybe he felt he could make more as a freelance?”

“A freelance accounts clerk?”

“What?”

“He was never a reporter, as such, except for a few unpaid feeder stories on the local GNN service. His job in the company was to handle the expense claims from the paid-up, professional reporters.”

“That’s a big ‘but’.”

Adam nodded. “Could be that he’s just playing up his achievements to impress, of course,” he suggested, seeing the cold expression that settled on Paul’s face as he digested the information.

“Yeah… yeah, no doubt.” Paul didn’t sound at all happy. He stood brooding for a long moment. “You know, I bet I know why he came here. Fed up with a dead-end job, faced with a fiancée who decided life with an accounts clerk wouldn’t be worth living, and then his mother dies, so he ‘reassesses’ his life, and decides he can do better elsewhere: in fact, he can do better here. He’s come here to move in on my parents and wheedle his way into my family.”

“Cut the guy some slack, Paul. If his mother was so against any contact with her family, it seems to me that Ronnie was right to do as she wanted. Wouldn’t you humour your mother in those circumstances?”

Paul gave a derisive snort. “I think I’d be man enough to do what I wanted.”

“Yeah, maybe you would at that, but you’ve been the pivot this family revolves around all your life – I don’t think Ronnie’s had that particular boost to his self confidence.”

“Are you saying what I think you are? That I’ve been indulged all my life? Well, there’s the pot calling the kettle black, Mr Rich Man’s Son.”

Adam shook his head. He didn’t want to get into that sort of pointless argument with his friend; they’d both grown up with streaks of stubborn independence in their personalities or, as Colonel White frequently described them both, ‘pig-headed’. The only distinction was that, as the eldest, he’d been expected to keep the peace between his siblings as he grew up.