A brief digression for the stag party, but back with Patrick and Shelagh in the next chapter I promise. As always, thank you for the lovely reviews and the encouragement to keep going.

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i'th'bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;

And, with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief.

The words had been poignantly delivered, although, thought Patrick, it was hard to imagine how an actress with the slightest iota of sensitivity could fail to move an audience with that speech. From behind them had come a muffled sob and when he snuck a sidelong glance to his left, wondering what Timothy was making of this most wordy and serious of scenes, it was with quiet satisfaction that he saw the boy leaning forward, eyes agog and mouth slightly open, rapt in concentration. Yet it was not only the beauty of the lines which made him think about them once again as he stood in the queue at the bar, quietly waiting to buy their interval drinks.

After the initial shock of finding himself so monumentally and universally hoodwinked by son, friends and fiancée, his slight regret that he was leaving Shelagh mollified by her sunny teasing and obvious pleasure in Timothy's delight, the evening had been glorious. The excellent dinner and bright-eyed sophistication of the city were a brief vacation from toil, more of a shot in his tired arm than any blast of adrenalin. With the company came the old restorative of old friendships, as easeful as slipping into a warm bath, as natural and simple as breathing, where maps of jokes and thoughts emerge with the clarity of roads on a clear day. Then came the play, one which he had seen before, several times, but never struck by it quite as he was now. His gut burned and even standing up when the house lights announced the interval was painful; it was a relief, he considered, that he could self-diagnose the fact he had probably strained a stomach muscle from laughing so much rather than face the disapproval of one of his more censorious colleagues, whose reactions to such shameless frivolity he could only speculate about. Beyond the farce, it was not the play's charm and vigour he considered, or even its balance between bawdy nonsense and the deeply moving explorations of love and loss. Every moment of it was tinged by the conclusion Timothy had come to on the train to the Old Vic, one which still wandered in the back of Patrick's mind. Question after question had burst out of him, clearly every query which had been stored up and simmered for the three weeks until secrecy was over and the encyclopaedia of Dad could be consulted. Was it sad or funny? What was the story? Why was it called Twelfth Night and wasn't that a silly title? If it had songs, was it like a pantomime? Was there really a country called Illyria and if not, why didn't Shakespeare set it in a proper country? Why would a girl dress up as a boy anyway? Patrick had answered each one, skirting over the issue of what a young woman protecting her honour really meant as delicately as he could, much to the entertainment of David and Kenneth, both of whom were more than content to sit opposite in wry amusement. The last question had been the most interesting: who was the hero? He had enjoyed watching Timothy's shock at the answer, gently admonishing the little sexist by asking why a woman couldn't be heroic? Timothy had squirmed and avoided the question by asking why Viola was brave, listening carefully, his nose screwed up, while his father explained about her quiet courage, the resilience and resourcefulness which kept her going through difficult times, how she had sympathy for people who suffered and tried to do the best for the people she cared about; then, finally, he had made his observation: "She sounds a bit like Shelagh."

It was years since he had seen the play, infinitely longer since he had studied it at school, but he remembered the plot too well to need to concentrate on the interweaving storylines. Instead, he watched and laughed and found the truth in what Timothy had said. It was fondness, not arc lights, which softened and glorified this version of the heroine for him, but the energy, the intelligence and wit, the innate compassion, the practicality, all were peculiarly familiar. Even a capacity for plotting and keeping secrets, hitherto unexpected yet clearly surprisingly well developed from the evidence of the past few hours, was not inappropriate. At one moment towards the end of Act 1, the actress had set her shoulders and pursed her lips, then strode forward towards the house of her rival to face what pain lay ahead and it had been so like the moment when Shelagh had taken her case with the briefest twitch of a smile and the words 'We shall see', then walked away, without pause or backward glance, into the sanatorium that he had shivered. He had called it pluck when he was at school, told off for his unacademic discourse but commended for the idea. Now, with that ghostly memory in mind, he saw it as something deeper, that reserved, resolute bravery.

How long had she sat like Patience on a monument, offering one face of cheer to the world while a cancer of grief devoured her? He knew she had, could only guess at depth of the unhappiness which for so long he had not noticed, a presence like the instruments on his car's dashboard or the lines upon his face: a constancy he barely noticed, as wilfully blind as Orsino although maybe not so foolish. What hints of suffering had peeped through the cracks in her façade he had dismissed, first as tiredness – his or hers, it hardly mattered, they were so similar – and then as fancies imagined by his own impossible longing. They had talked of her long searching of her soul, but little of those dark nights of turmoil, she still reluctant to speak of them and he to probe the rawness which still caused pain, and when they had, she spoke in strange oblique terms he did not understand: the will of God, a crisis of faith, searching for the Holy Spirit, her time in the wilderness. It had been harder for her, he knew that. There had been self-loathing when he saw how he had disturbed her peace and desperate loneliness when he waited for letters of reply which never came and thought he had invented an affection which he now knew he had grossly underestimated, but even these had been easier than her struggle, for he had had no vows to renounce; death had broken them already. That realisation had been his crisis, and, with it, the acceptance that it was no infidelity to love again.

'Cakes and Ale', happiness in this life, not perpetual grief, was that not what the play said? That and that time would put all things right until all things were understood and the survivors emerged from the wreck, breaking the surface to be blessed by the sun. Better to live and love and laugh, than stagnate and gather dust; even, perhaps especially, to laugh at oneself and see one's own idiocies. It was with a snort to himself that Patrick tried to recall the oddly apposite lines near the end of the play, just scrabbling at the edge of his memory: the heroine, newly renamed but still clad as a boy, stood in front of a man fervently declaring her love; and he, confused but finally starting to understood, asked to see her dressed in her 'woman's weeds', promising 'when in other habits you are seen Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen'. Timothy had picked surprisingly, eerily well, although, mused Patrick, there was one unnerving implication to the comparison he was drawing. To find all he loved in Shelagh so vibrantly displayed in Viola, admired and adored by the world, was a private joy, but, he thought sardonically as he reached the head of the queue and made his order for two whiskies, a glass of claret and a lemonade, he desperately hoped that he wasn't quite so intensely irritating, perpetually whiney and such an unconscionable drip as Orsino.

Standing at one side of the foyer was the rest of their party, David hands in pockets leaning lightly against the wall, Kenneth intently padding down the tobacco in his pipe, apparently unconcerned about actually lighting it, and Timothy staring at the crowd, mesmerised by the cut-glass pecking of chatter.

"Are you enjoying the play, Timothy? You've been laughing almost as much as your father," asked Kenneth.

Timothy nodded vigorously. "I thought it would be boring, but it's much funnier than I thought. I like the silly knights, especially Sir Andrew. He's really stupid, isn't he? I like the songs too."

Kenneth smiled. "Spoken like your father's boy!"

"Does Malvolio wear yellow stockings and smile and be awful and everything in the second half?"

"Wait and see! Now, are you happy with the way everything worked out this evening? Is there anything else which you would like us to do?"

"I don't think so," said Timothy. "I can't think of anything. But I've not been to a stag party before, so I don't know. Is it a good one?"

"Excellent. Couldn't have done it better myself," said David vigorously.

"You didn't do it better yourself. This is much better than the one he organised last time round," continued Kenneth, adjusting his glasses with a smirk, while David chuckled.

"What did you do last time?" The idea that there had been a stag party once before belonged to that strange impossible life where Dad had a nickname and laughed more frequently than he looked anxious or was part of events which were detailed in history books, the life from which he was starting to discover snippets, but which felt like a storybook in its unlikeliness.

The two men exchanged glances, trying to remember. It was several lifetimes ago. "We went to the pub," said David.

"Was that all?" asked Timothy, not entirely successful in hiding how unimpressed he was. "Was it just you?"

Kenneth shook his head. "No. Tom was there, Tom Anderson," he explained. "He hadn't emigrated at that point. And your uncle Michael, a couple of your father's colleagues from the London and your Auntie Anna's husband. What's his name again?"

"Uncle Tom."

"Yes."

"Great heavens, Ken," remarked David. "Is that the first time you've ever forgotten a name? And I thought you'd recall everyone, where they sat, what they drank and in what order. Getting soft in your old age."

"Well, it wasn't that memorable a night! I do remember that your mum's brother – James, is it? – wasn't there, as he hadn't been demobbed yet and was still in Italy."

"Do you think Dad would've preferred to go to a pub? Constable Noakes had his stag party at one. I didn't think he would. I never knew Dad liked pubs," said Timothy, troubled.

"No," David replied quickly. "This is splendid, much more your dad's scene and you've put infinitely more thought into it than we did. To be entirely honest with you, the war had just ended and there wasn't a lot of anything then. Everything was heavily rationed and we didn't have a great deal of money either. I think more than anything we just wanted to see each other. We'd all been stationed in different places and, frankly, were glad we'd managed to get through unscathed, so the pub was the best we could come up with. Didn't Patrick's boss save the day?" he added, frowning. "I've got a memory of him turning up and telling Patrick he was needed on duty or something and then sticking a donation behind the bar? He couldn't have, though, could he? Patrick didn't start back at work until after the wedding."

Kenneth emitted a surprisingly high pitched giggle. "I'd forgotten that! Yes, his old registrar from when he qualified dropped in and said that if Patrick wanted the hospital job he'd been promised – "

"He would have to start early and was needed that night as flu had run through the staff!" David joined in the laughter. "And Patrick fell for it."

"And went rushing off to the toilet to get ready for work, grumbling endlessly, and it was only after he got back and saw the pint waiting for him and the old chap having one too that he realised!"

"Never learns, does he?" David's shoulders shook. "Keep that one under your hat, Timothy. I don't think Dad would be too pleased to know we'd let it slip. And it was fairly convincing. To be honest, I fell for it too and was most annoyed at the destruction of my best laid plans of mice and men, until after your father nipped off to the bathroom and Dr. Whatever-his-name-was produced his wallet!"

Although he sniggered, Timothy's brow was puckering. "Should the Best Man pay for the stag party? I should, shouldn't I? How much is it? I've been saving my pocket money." He had saved for weeks, carefully calculating that even with the cost of a frame for the photograph Alec had taken that morning of himself and Dad as Shelagh's Christmas present and maybe another frame, if he could persuade Shelagh to have a matching photograph taken as a gift for his father, an inspired suggestion Alec had made while his father was out of earshot, he would still have enough for the longed for Lancaster bomber kit. He had no concept of how much theatre tickets cost or dinner at a restaurant with white linen tablecloths, crystal wineglasses and fine bone china. Somehow he knew they would not be inexpensive. "If I've not got enough, can I pay you back in bits?"

Behind the spectacles of both men was a deep, gentle warmth. "Don't be silly, Timothy. Of course you can't pay. It's our treat. You've done all of the work thinking about what Dad would like, setting it up and organising it. The least we can do is 'Be the money'," said David.

"That's not true, Uncle David," protested Timothy. "You got the tickets and booked the restaurant."

"Logistics. The thinking's the important bit."

"Besides," added Kenneth seriously, "it's not tradition. The ushers – the groom's friends who help out at the wedding service, that's us – pay for the stag party. The Best Man organises things, takes care of the rings and does the speech, so the ushers help out this way."

"Is that really a tradition? Constable Noakes didn't tell me about that."

"It is in Wales. Swallowed a fly or something, have you?" he asked, peering over his glasses as David started to cough violently.

"Hiccoughs," he said, looking away.

"Let us do this, Timothy boy. Please?" said Kenneth earnestly, putting the pipe into his pocket.

"Alright," replied Timothy reluctantly. "Can I give a little bit please, though? You said that Dad's boss did last time."

"If you insist. A very little bit."

"A man has to pay his debts," said David clapping him on the shoulder. He remembered the stubbornness from their last two years at university. Rounds had been painstakingly bought from the carefully husbanded reserves of the older son of a woman suddenly widowed, refusals to take handouts from the wealthy old boy of a distinguished boarding school or the indulged youngest child of an affluent Cardiff solicitor bluntly made. "Why don't we take it off your Christmas present? That's easiest. We'll both give you a smaller Christmas present than usual. Look," he said, quickly changing the subject, "while Dad's out of the way, this is the chance for you two to talk speeches. I will position myself as Surveillance Officer Watson over there and when Dad and I wander over, start talking about the play. Agreed?" Timothy nodded. "Make sure he gives you proper advice, Timothy, and if he doesn't, we'll sack him as an usher." With that last twinkle, he sauntered away.

"I think we should sack Uncle David for cheek! So, the speech. What do you need to know?"

"Did you do the speech when Dad married Mum?"

As though they were strands winding the air, Kenneth caught and identified the elements in the question, separating and considering them: the inquisitiveness covering a certain evasion, something gloomy muddying at the bottom. They were not lost on him as he replied. "Uncle David delivered it, but we wrote it together."

"What did you talk about?"

Kenneth laughed. "Your Dad's terrible cooking, his awful timekeeping, his untidiness. Is this sounding familiar?" Timothy started to giggle. "There were some nice stories too. Uncle David explained he owed his marriage to him, as Auntie Louisa thought Uncle David was a bit of an idiot when he first started trying to woo her and it was your father who persuaded her to give him a chance. We had a couple of anecdotes about why patients always liked him more than us too. I think it was a good speech, he certainly laughed a lot, although," he concluded, "I'm sure yours will be better."

Timothy sighed and scowled at his feet. "I've not started it yet."

Kenneth dropped his voice conspiratorially. "We didn't write ours until the morning of the wedding. Don't tell your father. I'm very ashamed given he did such a marvellous job when I married Aunt Alice." Seeing Timothy's appalled expression, he quickly added, "I would do it differently nowadays."

"I don't even know how to start. Or what I'm supposed to say. Speeches are horrid."

Ignoring the last remark, from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Kenneth pulled out his diary and fountain pen. "Let's plan it then," he said briskly, jabbing his glasses up to the bridge of the nose. "The usual reason for the Best Man giving a speech is to reply to the groom, because he usually says some nice things about the bridesmaids and then the Best Man says something nice on their behalf, but I don't think Shelagh's having any, is she?" Timothy shook his head. "See, you don't have to be like other speeches anyway and can say what you want. Usually I think it helps to have a theme and then maybe make three or four points. Having the numbers helps the audience to keep up. Does that sound like a good idea?"

"Yes."

"Good. All we need to do is find the theme."

Timothy looked at him awkwardly. "Can you think of anything, Uncle Kenneth? I can't. I know it's supposed to entertain everyone."

"Forget that," Kenneth interrupted. "It doesn't matter. You've got a special thing which you should do, because you're an unusual Best Man and it might be what you want as your theme. It's not often that the Best Man is the groom's son," he explained. "What is it that only you can do?"

"Tell people about Dad?" he offered half-heartedly. As most of his stories had come from his father's friends, he knew the answer was weak.

"No," said Kenneth. "Uncle David could do that. I could do that. Not in quite the same way, but in our own way we could. We couldn't do this. Only you can. Think logically." He waited, then tried again, with a crisp cool clarity which the legion of young trainees who had been through his hands would have instantly recognised, deducing what he did not know. "Did your father ask you if you minded about him getting married again?"

"Yes," said Timothy.

"Did he ask you about it first or propose to Shelagh first?"

"He asked me first."

Kenneth smiled encouragingly. "Why, do you think? Think about it, Timothy boy. Why did it matter? It's the same reason this wedding's special for you as well as for your father."

Slowly, Timothy replied, knowing exactly what he meant by every word. "Because Shelagh's going to be my mum as well as Dad's wife."

"Yes, good." said Kenneth. "Now, who do you think getting married's scarier for? Dad or Shelagh?"

Timothy answered quickly. He had considered the question before. "Shelagh."

"Why?"

"Because she's not been married before."

"Yes. It might even be scarier than giving a speech," he suggested, artfully plucking the muttered grumble back into the discussion. "So, what could you say which would make it less scary?"

"I could tell her about what it's like in our family and what she needs to watch out for with Dad."

Swallowing a guffaw at Timothy's wording, Kenneth jotted down a few words on a page ripped from the diary. "Anything else? What do you think about Shelagh marrying your father? One word, mind."

There were many words, but the first he thought of was the simplest. "Brilliant!"

"Then tell her that. It's called 'welcoming her to the family' and only you can do it. Don't get too gushy about it, as you know your dad gets a little embarrassed about that kind of thing, but if you tell her what you've just told me, outline a few things she needs 'to watch out for with Dad' and tease him just a little bit, you couldn't possibly do a better speech."

"But what about everyone else?"

Kenneth shrugged. "What about them? Who's going to be there, Timothy? Uncle David, me, our families, some of your relatives, Shelagh's sister and her family and some nuns who are like family for Shelagh? It's just a few people, all of whom know and love you and your father and Shelagh. If Dad and Shelagh like it, we will too. I promise." He was a tall man and it was hard for him to hunch, but for a moment he did, meeting the boy at eye level. "I promise. And even if we didn't, which we will anyway, does it matter more to you what your father and Shelagh think, or someone else?"

"But - "

Still hunched down and fixing the child's attention on him, he interrupted, with a slight wave of his hand. "No, forget everyone else. Whose opinion matters most to you?"

Timothy smiled. "Dad and Shelagh."

"Exactly. You know him better than anyone. Write the speech you'd give if it was just the three of you at home having dinner before playing board games and you wanted to entertain them." Looking up, his expression altered. "They're coming over. Anything else, quickly?"

Timothy wracked his brains. "Not really. Will you check the speech if I send it to you? Constable Noakes said he would help me and he and Akela have been really great, but you know Dad and he doesn't much."

"Of course." Surreptitiously he slipped the page from the diary to Timothy, still speaking. "I agree. She is the hero. It's interesting having a lady as the hero, isn't it? I don't know if she'd be able to do some of the things she does though if she wasn't pretending to be a man. Ah, the drinks! Thank you, Patrick. We were just agreeing with your assessment that Viola is the hero of the play."

Had Timothy not known the reason for the conversational non sequitur, it would have baffled him. Knowing it, he was more than equal to following it, despite trying not to laugh at the broad wink Uncle David gave him from behind his father's back as he thanked him for the lemonade. "Why does she like Orsino, Uncle Kenneth? I think he's really annoying."

"Why don't we ask your father," said David cheerfully, raising his glass convivially, "given this is his third favourite Shakespeare play! What is it that makes such an impressive young woman fall in love with such an extraordinarily annoying man? Patrick?"

Patrick pulled a face. He had no doubt that David remembered the observation Timothy had made in the train. "It's beyond me. Cheers."