Hiding the Past

pill and the baby was gone, you put it upfor adoption, which is exactly what she did.  And that’s how yourmother and I came to have you.’  The way that his father emphasised theword that’s had made it sound as though it were the end of a long,self-explanatory speech that required no further questioning.  And, as ifto underline the point, his father closed his eyes and emitted a deepsatisfying sigh, a crushing weight evidently having been lifted from hisreconditioned heart.  Over the years, Morton had convinced himself thatnature was indeed stronger than nurture and that no part of his characterattributes, or what had made him the person he was today, stemmed from hisadoptive parents, which now left him with the stark and numbing realisationthat fifty percent of his biological make-up came from a rapist.  And tothink that he was embarrassed at school to say that his father worked inB&Q.  He imagined the reaction of standing up and telling his classthat his father was a man who liked to force schoolgirls to have sex with him.

‘So, you knewmy mother then?’ Morton ventured.

‘Of course Iknew her, I married her, didn’t I?’

‘My biologicalmother,’ Morton clarified.

For a briefmoment it appeared as though someone had pressed a pause button on his father,for he lay frozen without so much as a flicker of movement.  Even hisglassy eyes were devoid of animation.  As Morton was assimilating thepossibility that his father had just pegged out in front of him, right at thecritical revelatory moment, which would have been just the kind of thing likelyto happen to him, he turned and met Morton’s anxious eyes.  ‘Yes, we knewher.’  Another lengthy pause.  God, this was like pulling teeth,Morton thought.  ‘Who was she?’ he asked, his whole body physically achingto know the answer that he’d waited almost twenty years to hear.

‘She was just agirl, a sixteen-year-old girl.’

Morton sufferedanother pause.  ‘But what was her name?’

‘Her name’sirrelevant,’ he said, now barely audible.  His eyes closed again andturned his head.  ‘All long ago in the past.’

‘Please,’Morton pleaded gently.

‘I need torest.’

‘Please,’ herepeated, alarmed to discover that he was on the verge of tears.  Hecouldn’t say anything else; he was emotionally parched.

His father wasunresponsive and Morton stood to leave.  And then the answer came. Without fanfare and even without his father opening his eyes or moving a muscle– just five simple words.

‘Her name wasMargaret Farrier.’

Morton ordered a pint of beer and tried toimagine his Aunty Margaret aged sixteen.  He was sure that he’d seenphotographs of her beaming brightly in her school uniform, a moment captured oncamera before her innocence was barbarically stolen by Morton’s naturalfather.  It was odd but he felt a strange level of responsibility for hisbiological father’s actions.  The flip side to that, however, was thesimple truth that if his father hadn’t raped Aunty Margaret then he wouldn’t behere now.  It was a sickening and horrifying feeling to know that he owedhis entire existence to a rapist.

It took a secondpint for Morton to go home and muster the courage to go back to break the newsto Juliette and Jeremy.  The irony of finally discovering a latentfraternal bond with Jeremy, to now discover that he was actually his cousin,was not lost on Morton as he neared the house.

Morton triedhis hardest to put on something resembling a brave face.  Even just anordinary face would have done.  He wanted to stride into the kitchenconfidently and say, ‘Hi, everything okay?  You’ll never guess whatI’ve just found out!’  Wasn’t that how his family did things? Dropped emotional bombshells and then ran away?  He was sure that hisfather would have walked away if it were at all possible as soon as he’duttered the words, ‘And that’s how your mother and I came to have you.’ Job done.  Cheerio.  But Morton couldn’t appear any other way thantotally shell-shocked and mildly drunk.  Of course, they had both spottedit as soon as he walked through the front door.  ‘What’s happened?’Juliette had asked.  ‘It’s Dad, isn’t it?’ Jeremy had said, the pair ofthem haranguing him before he’d even drawn breath.  He’d just managed tokeep his composure while he relayed what his father had told him and had justfinished telling them everything, when Guy arrived.  Suddenly, the worldfell silent and a raft of questions from Juliette and Jeremy were leftunspoken.

‘Right,’ Jeremysaid assertively.  ‘We’re going to get ready, then go and visitDad.’  Guy set down the piece of toast he was in the middle of eating andobediently followed Jeremy from the room.

Morton noddedand slumped down onto his arms, unable to talk anymore.  He was tired,more tired than he’d ever been before and he just wanted to rest and not tothink.

‘Did they everfind the bloke who raped her?’ Juliette asked, her voice loaded withsympathy.  That must be her PCSO voice, Morton thought.  He expectedthat she was itching to get into work and see what she could dig up. Morton shrugged.  He had no idea if the bloke - his father - hadescaped scot-free and went on to rape other schoolgirls or if he was behindbars.  He might even be dead by now.

‘I’m going tobed,’ Morton mumbled.

‘I’ll cometoo.’

When he woke up he was drenched in sweat,yet, according to the clock, he’d only been asleep for forty minutes.  Hesat up and stripped off his sodden t-shirt.  A flicker of his dreamflashed in his mind, like a snippet from a grainy film.  A fat RussianMatryoshka nesting doll had spoken to him.  He couldn’t remember what he’dsaid; just that it was an old man who didn’t look in the slightest bitRussian.  He resembled someone haggard from years of working on the landand after he had spoken, the top half of his body tilted open sideways and outpopped another man whom Morton identified as James Coldrick.  He saidsomething incoherent - at least, the memory of the dream was now incoherent -then he too opened up and out sprang Peter Coldrick.  Then, just like thetwo men before him, his body severed across the waist to reveal FinlayColdrick, who promptly burst into tears.  Morton wondered why hisexhausted brain had picked Russian nesting dolls to feature in what must