‘Why don’t youjust go for the counselling, then see how you feel? You don’t even haveto find out who they are if you don’t want to.’
‘I don’t seewhy I should,’ Morton answered indignantly. It was the seemingly randomquirk of law that anyone born before 12 November 1975 must seek counsellingbefore discovering their birth parents that most irked Morton.
Counselling. It all sounded so American and unnecessary.
Juliettesighed, checked herself in the full-length mirror and waltzed from the bedroom,the transformation complete, leaving Morton with an unpleasant burninginside. Just how he needed to feel moments before seeing his father andbrother again.
Morton and Juliette arrived at hisfather’s smart 1930s semi in Hastings; the same respectable house andneighbourhood in which Morton had spent his first eighteen years of life, apartfrom those first few memory-less hours as a new-born baby in the arms of hisreal mother (presuming, of course, that she had even held him at birth). Seeing the house again filled his heart with the familiar yet uncomfortablefusion of emotions he had always felt coming back: nostalgia, disappointmentand hopelessness. It was the same on each and every occasion that hereturned home, the feelings only swelling and deepening with time. Hishopes of a last-minute cancellation were quashed by the din spilling out fromthe open windows.
Juliette sensedhis apprehension and grasped his hand in hers as they neared the front door,giving it a tender, reassuring squeeze.
Morton pressedthe doorbell and waited. He had his own key in his pocket but the lasttime he’d used it – more than two years ago now - his father had reacted withsuch shock that he had just tottered in off the streets without prior warningthat Morton had never dared to use it ever since.
A figure movedbehind the obscure glass.
Morton returnedJuliette’s squeeze as the door opened, revealing Jeremy with a large grin onhis face. In full military uniform. He looked like Action Man’schild, Action Boy; all dressed up and ready to play. Morton wondered ifJeremy really knew the difference between a weekend in the New Forestpaint-balling with his mates and live warfare. Probably not. Butthen again, did half the teenagers serving out there really understand or careabout anything beyond the fact that they’d been given a real gun with realbullets and carte blanche to kill real people?
‘Hi, Jeremy,’Juliette said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.
‘Hi, guys, soglad you could make it,’ Jeremy said cheerfully, irking Morton. Howcould anyone be so happy about going to Afghanistan? Morton extendedhis hand to his brother but Jeremy pulled him into a bear hug, squashingMorton’s right hand between them. As far as Morton could recall, it wasthe first time he had ever embraced his brother. He wondered if that wasnormal for two thirty-something-year-old brothers. Finally Jeremy pulledaway and stepped back to allow them into the busy house.
‘All set then,Jeremy?’ Morton asked.
‘Think so,yeah,’ Jeremy answered, leading them through the crowded hallway. Mortonhardly recognised the place. The house was teeming with macho menthrowing Stellas down their thick tattooed necks and laughing raucously. Morton couldn’t imagine for a single second what his dad thought about hishouse being turned into an army barracks’ outpost. He’d probably gonenext door to David and Sandra’s for wine, cheese and a few games of Scrabble.
Apparently not.
His fatherappeared from the crowd clutching a cup of tea in his favourite mug emblazonedwith a watercolour kingfisher. ‘Morton, Juliette,’ he said, as if he wastaking a register and simply confirming their presence, rather than welcomingthem into his home. He looked so much older to Morton than the last timehe’d seen him. He noticed that the last flecks of his naturallycoal-black hair had been completely drowned by a solid sea of dove-grey. He greeted Juliette with a smile when she leant in to peck him on thecheek. Morton shook his hand. None of that namby-pamby huggingbusiness with Mr Farrier, thank you very much.
‘So, how’s workthese days?’ his father asked him. Morton felt that he had to physicallyprevent his eyes from rolling and his lungs from exhaling dramatically. His father always opened conversation with questions about his work, seeming tonever believe Morton could actually make money from researching people’s familytrees.
Juliettestepped in. ‘Oh my goodness, the work’s been flooding in for him,’ shesaid. ‘It took a lot to drag him away from it tonight, I can tellyou.’ She laughed. She was a good liar. It must have been therigorous police training. If Morton hadn’t known the truth, he might havebelieved it himself. ‘Just this week he landed a really good deal, didn’tyou, babe?’
Babe? When had he suddenly become a babe? It wasn’t a name he particularly felt comfortable with. Morton Farrier:babe.
‘Yeah, a realkiller, this one,’ he said sardonically.
‘Good show,that’s what I like to hear. Doesn’t do a chap good to be out of workthese days.’
‘Indeed,’Morton agreed.
‘Here you go,’Jeremy said, thrusting a can of beer into Morton’s hand. Morton took alarge gulp. He was going to need something strong to help him get throughthis evening. ‘What did you want to drink, Juliette?’
‘Just water’llbe great, thanks,’ she said, before qualifying, ‘...driving.’
‘You’vedecorated, I see,’ Morton said, vaguely directing his statement towards hisfather.
Hefrowned. ‘You must have been here since then. Must have been a goodeighteen months ago.’
‘It looksnice. Very modern,’ Morton said, ignoring the oblique undertones to hisfather’s statement.
‘Jeremy and Idecided it was about time we gave it a lick of paint. I’ve still got oneor two mates down at B&Q who I used to work with, so I got my ten percentstaff discount. And that was on top of the discount given to pensionerson a Tuesday.’
‘Fantastic,’Morton said, making no effort at all to sound genuine. He just couldn’tbe bothered. And nor, it seemed, could his father who had spotted someonemore interesting to converse
