The coffee wasbeginning to have an effect, beginning to bring Morton back to some semblanceof life. If only it were that simple for his father. What timewas it? Morton looked around for a clock, or even a window to givesome indication of the time of day, but couldn’t find either. He pulledout his iPhone. Almost nine thirty. Surely there would be an updateon his father now. He carried the drink over to the nurses' station, wheretwo young women were in mid-conversation about last night’s CoronationStreet. He waited for them to notice him and when they didn’t, heinterrupted. ‘I’m sure it was a really life-changing episode foryou both, but could you kindly deal with the more trivial matter of myalmost-dead father, if you don’t mind.’ It was too harsh and heregretted saying it straight away. The nurses gave each other anexasperated look.
‘Your father isfar from dead,’ one of them said reproachfully. ‘Do you honestlythink we would have left you snoring away in the waiting room if there wasanything that warranted disturbing you? You looked like you could do withthe rest.’
‘Sorry,’ Mortonsaid flatly, not about to be drawn into the finer points of his sleepinghabits. He was sure, though, that he didn’t snore. ‘Can I see him?’
‘By allmeans. He’s in Bay C, second bed on the right.’
‘Thank you.’ He moved away from the nurses' station and heard mutterings about hisrudeness. He had been rude, he knew that and quite frankly he didn’t care. Another instance of mitigating circumstances.
Morton headedtowards Bay C, which sounded like he would find his father in the corner of awarehouse or a busy dockyard. The sunlit room was at full occupation,being filled with a variety of sick and injured men of similar age to hisfather. His bed was screened off from the rest of the ward by a floralcurtain. Typically antisocial, Morton thought. He cautiouslypulled back the screen and was momentarily shocked: his father, eyes closed,pitifully thin and frail in a hospital-issue gown, showed no signs oflife. Were it not for the host of machines he was wired up to confirminglife, Morton would have believed him dead. He edged towards the bed andsat down beside him. A large part of him wanted to squeeze his father’sbony white hand and tell him that he loved him and that everything would beokay, but he just couldn’t. Thirty-nine years without physical contactprevented their hands from uniting. Surely his father had held him asa baby, or picked him up if he fell over as a toddler? Maybe, butthere was nothing in Morton’s memory store to substantiate it. Instead, herested his hand at the edge of the bed and stared at the pathetic sight beforehim. Moments later, as if sensing Morton’s feelings, his father’s handtwitched, seeming to reach and search for his.
‘Jeremy?’ histhroaty voice asked, lifting his head dolefully from the pillow, his eyesopening to a narrow squint.
‘No, it’sMorton,’ he replied.
His fatherissued a sound resembling a sigh and collapsed back into the bed. Fantastic,Morton thought. Even on death’s door his father couldn’t hide hisdisappointment in him and his preference for The Miracle Child. Herealised that he probably should get word to Jeremy about their father. Maybethe Army would give him compassionate leave. He thought that he wouldwait for some of the test results first – it was still only a suspectedheart attack – but it didn’t take Einstein to figure out that a cookedbreakfast each day since his wife died, no exercise, plus a copious quantity ofwhiskey and a cigar each night might eventually lead to a clogging of thearteries. The funeral flowers on Morton’s mother’s grave were still freshwhen his father made the announcement that he would be living his life how hewanted to live it and exercise, temperance and healthy eating were notincluded. To all intents and purposes, he became a recklessteenager. At the time it sounded to Morton like his father was somehowblaming his wife’s death on the fact that she tried to feed them wholesome foodand encouraged the odd gentle stroll in the park. Stupid man.
‘Are you stillthere?’ his father asked, almost inaudibly after a few minutes silence.
‘Yes, Morton’shere,’ he said, just to clarify that it wasn’t his natural son keeping thebedside vigil. What did that make him? The unnatural son?
‘Is Jeremycoming?’ his father rasped.
‘Yes,’ Mortonsaid. He reasoned that telling his father that Jeremy was on his way wouldeither be a comfort in his final hours or would be a temporaryreassurance. It was a lie which immediately served its purpose: hisfather visibly relaxed and closed his eyes.
Morton sat backin his chair and watched his father’s chest rise and fall in short, shallowbreaths, allowing the rhythmic sounds emanating from the machines to gentlylull him into sleep.
Sometime later,Morton’s iPhone sounded loudly in his pocket. His father opened his eyeswith alarm, huffed when he realised the sources of the noise, and slumped backinto the bed. Morton withdrew the phone and flicked the switch tomute. It was the Institute for Heraldic and Genealogical Studiescalling. Morton slid the screen to answer the call and quickly steppedout of the ward. It was the receptionist telling him that Dr Garlickwanted to see him. Morton made an appointment for the afternoon, endedthe call and returned to his father.
Three and a half hours later, Mortonsauntered along the inside of the Northgate Canterbury city wall, his thoughtsharassed by his father’s knife-edge condition. Before Morton had left theConquest Hospital, the doctors had confirmed that his father had suffered aheart attack and that further tests were needed.
Morton reachedthe Institute for Heraldic and Genealogical Studies and entered the cool lobbyarea where he asked the smiley receptionist for Dr Garlick. She picked upher telephone and summoned Dr Garlick.
‘Mr Farrier!’he greeted moments later, as if they were old friends, extending
