Chapter Five
Saturday
Morton was woken by the sound of hismobile ringing from somewhere in the house. He would usually haveswitched it off at night, preferring not to hear whatever bad news someonewanted to share, but in light of recent events he thought it better to leave itswitched on. He followed the trail of noise into the lounge, like a childfollowing the Pied Piper playing the iPhone ring tone, where he found hismobile. Jeremy’s name appeared onscreen and Morton’s heart sank.
‘Morning. Not too early is it?’ Jeremy asked.
‘Nope,’ Mortonanswered, a little too sharply and then regretted it when Jeremy said, ‘I justwanted to check you were coming tonight; you didn’t reply to my email.’
‘Sorry, I’vehad a lot on my mind,’ Morton said defensively.
‘So, are youcoming then? It’d be really good to see you before I go. It’s beenages.’
‘I’ll do mybest. Like I said, I’ve had a lot on my mind.’ He was being tooharsh, he knew that, yet he couldn’t stop himself. He needed at least to tryto be more upbeat. ‘Are you all set for your adventure then?’
‘Think so,ready as I can be,’ Jeremy said. There was a long pause, Morton notknowing what else to say. He wanted to tell Jeremy to take care and becareful and keep his eyes open and not to treat it as a big game. Not togo at all, in fact. What would their father do if his little miraclehad his head blown off by the Taleban? Or what if he ended up in awheelchair? Then what? Who’d look after him? He wanted tosay all of this but instead said, ‘Okay, we’ll hopefully see you tonight,then.’
Jeremy saidgoodbye and hung up.
‘Damn,’ Mortonchastised himself. He really could be a bastard sometimes.
Now that he wasawake, and with Juliette already at work, he might as well get on withsomething constructive. He poured himself a strong coffee and headed tothe confines of his study. He switched on the radio and immersed himselfinto the Coldrick Case. Enclosed by sheets of scribbled notes,Morton weighed his possible next options. Given James Coldrick’sconfinement in St George’s Children’s Home in 1944, it seemed logical that hewas born in the vicinity of Sedlescombe. When he had arrived there andunder what circumstances, Morton did not know, but the home and the village hadplayed a significant part in the formative years of his life. Mortonfired up Juliette’s laptop and started with a simple Google search ofSedlescombe, following a plethora of links of varying usefulness and qualityabout the history of the village. The parish council had done anexcellent PR job on www.sedlescombe.org.uk, generally promoting village life. A history section on the website provided a potted narrative from the Stone Ageuntil more recent times. According to the website, St George’s Children’sHome was built in 1922 by the firm, Dengates, when the local workhouse wasdemolished. Past research had taught him that life for anyone in aworkhouse, especially children, was gruelling, severe and bleak. However,given his findings at East Sussex Archives, Morton wondered if conditions wereany better for the poor children at St George's.
After an hour’s research, the heat wasgetting unbearable. Morton stripped down to what had once been his bestCalvin Klein boxers, but which were now stretched and faded beyond allrecognition. It was time for some new ones, but Juliette didn’t approveof spending twenty quid on something nobody except her would ever see. ‘At least, they’d better not,’ she’d once warned. He rememberedthe way that his mother used to carefully iron the household’s clothing everyMonday night without fail, including the underwear. She even ironedtea-towels and pillow cases. It was her generation. ‘A woman’s workis never done,’ he remembered her saying on a daily basis. He wonderedwhat she’d make of his relationship with Juliette, who shared none of hismother’s domesticity: you’d never catch Juliette ironing anything that wasn’tabsolutely compulsory (such as her pristine work uniform). Doubtless hismother’s religious background would have caused her to frown on their livingtogether but he was certain that she would have thawed eventually. Maybethings wouldn’t now be so strained between him and his father if she were stillalive. It was incredible that his mother had missed out on more of hislife than she’d been there for. He was sixteen when she died, stillnavigating his way through puberty, flailing around discovering his ownidentity. To all intents and purposes, she never really knew Morton atall. He didn’t like to think of her too often because no matter how happythe memory he was recalling, the story always ended the same: in her death.
Morton tried toignore the latest news bulletin on the radio: more British soldiers had beenkilled in Afghanistan. He held his finger to the off-switch, wanting toavoid the intimate biographical details of the deceased men but he couldn’tquite bring himself to do it. Two British soldiers serving with theFirst Battalion Grenadier Guards have been killed after the vehicle in whichthey were travelling came under fire, the Ministry of Defence hasconfirmed. Corporal Brian Scott and Corporal Lance Adams, both nineteen,died after the vehicle they were travelling in… He switched itoff. Jeremy was going to be deployed there any day now. Deployed,it all sounded so organised and meticulously planned - not quite the reality thatMorton had witnessed in the media. War for war’s sake, he thought.
The idea ofJeremy out there in the desert, with a real gun and real people to kill, was soincomprehensible as to be almost laughable. Morton was sure that hewouldn’t last ten minutes. Despite their strained relationship, wheneverMorton heard the word Afghanistan, it was like someone had hooked him up to adialysis machine and replaced his blood with a thick freezing sludge. Hewondered, if the worst came to the worst, if he would hear news of Jeremy’sdeath on Radio Four before anyone in his own family had contacted him. Probably not, didn’t they always say that they couldn’t release the name untilthe family had been informed? Did that include inadequate adopted siblings?
Morton had hadenough and was feeling claustrophobic
