‘Sorry, justthinking,’ Morton said as he stepped inside the house.
‘Dave’s runningthe Neighbourhood Watch now that Geoff’s passed on, so I expect you’ve beenclocked.’
‘Oh dear,’Morton said sarcastically, then quickly reprimanded himself for his tone.
‘Do you want acup of tea?’ his father asked when they reached the lounge.
‘Coffee,please,’ Morton answered.
‘You don’t havesugar, do you?’
‘No,’ he said,biting his tongue. Surely his own father should know after thirty-nineyears that he didn’t take sugar?
‘Go into thelounge and I’ll bring it through.’
Morton sat inthe quiet room, deliberately choosing the armchair by the window rather thanthe sofa which faced the awful family portrait hanging above the fireplace ofhim, Jeremy and their mum and dad. Not only did he hate the way that helooked in the portrait, but it always reminded him of his mum’s death, as itwas the last picture that existed of all of them together before shedied. Having chosen the seat so as not to have to look at the portrait,he found himself craning his neck to see it properly. He looked hismother in the eyes and allowed happy memories to return. He smiled at heras his eyes filled with tears. ‘I miss you, Mum,’ he whispered.
‘Here we are,’his father’s voice boomed as he entered the room carrying a tray. ‘Onlygot chocolate bourbons, I’m afraid.’
Morton quicklyran his sleeve over his moist eyes. ‘That’s fine.’ He watched ashis father’s doddery hand placed the cups and china plate of biscuits on thecoffee table between them. After suffering from severe heart trouble lastyear, his father had, albeit very reluctantly, had a change of lifestyle. He had joined the local gym and cut back on his cooked breakfasts and he nowlooked much better for it. ‘You’re looking well.’
His father wavedhis hand dismissively. ‘It’s all that rabbit food I’m eating. Doyou know what the dietician suggested I eat once a fortnight? Millet! Ha!’ he said with a laugh. ‘Does she think I’m a budgie orsomething?’ He laughed again. ‘I ask you.’
‘It’s obviouslyworking, though,’ Morton said, taking a bourbon. He observed his fatherand waited for the inevitable comeback along the lines of If this is goingto make me live longer, then I’d rather not live, but it didn’t come. It seemed his father’s attitude as well as his appearance had shifted. Maybebroaching the subject of Aunty Margaret won’t be so painful after all, Mortonhoped.
‘How’s work?’his father asked.
‘Great, thankyou. I’m working on a really interesting case at the moment,’ Mortonbegan. Ever since his last high-profile case, his father had suddenly satup with interest. He had even told the neighbours with a hint of pridethat his son was the forensic genealogist who had brought down theWindsor-Sackville family. Up until then he had regarded Morton’s careerwith derision and open scorn.
‘Go on,’ hisfather encouraged.
Morton recountedthe highlights of the case, carefully choosing the parts which sounded the mostexciting.
His fatherlooked impressed. ‘Very enthralling.’
With his storyover, a slight pause hung in the air, as both men sipped their drinks. Morton used the gap in conversation to broach the subject of AuntyMargaret. Here’s where it all goes horribly wrong, Mortonthought. But he had to do it. The past would forever have a grip onhim until he began to resolve the issue. Forever delaying meeting AuntyMargaret was not an option. Neither was discussing at his brother’swedding, her rape at the age of sixteen. Even worse would be to pretendthat nothing had changed. ‘I wanted to ask you something about thewedding,’ Morton ventured carefully. ‘I…I’m not sure about what I can sayto Aunty Margaret…’ Suddenly, his mouth had dried and he struggled toswallow.
‘She very muchdoubts she’ll be coming to the wedding,’ his father said flatly.
‘Oh?’ Mortonsaid.
‘She’s got ladytroubles,’ he said, with an indistinct gesture towards his waist. ‘She’sdue to have a big operation in a few weeks to… sort it all out. She’sbeen told she can’t do much for about six weeks, so unless the operation getsmoved, the wedding’s sadly out of the question.’
Morton wasn’tsure how to process the news that his Aunty Margaret wouldn’t be at thewedding. On the one hand, he was greatly relieved that there would be noawkwardness between them and he could just relax and enjoy the occasion. On the other hand, it was delaying the inevitable. He would have to seeher again one day…
A short silencebegan to draw out, gradually emphasising the elephant in the room to whichMorton had just referred. He felt as though someone was slowly stranglinghim from behind, pressing and squashing his vocal chords. Sayit! But no words would come. He looked over at his father andwaited for him to swallow his mouthful of tea. Finally, their eyeslocked. Say it!
‘I expect you’redithering around asking me what she knows,’ his father said, unexpectedly.
Morton nodded,still unable to speak.
His father setdown his tea and cleared his throat. ‘I told her about the situation whenI got out of hospital last year; she knows everything,’ he said.
Morton waitedfor more to follow, but, true to form, his father felt that no further explanationwas required. It struck him as interesting that he had heard nothing fromher since being told—just the usual Christmas card with the annual syrupyround-robin letter to tell everyone how their family had fared during the pastyear. It definitely didn’t include the lines ‘Discovered that my nephew,who is actually my biological son, now knows the truth!’ Did that meanshe had taken the news badly? He had to ask, as painful anduncomfortable as it might be for his father. ‘How did she take it?’ heasked quietly.
‘She wasa bit upset at first,’ he said. ‘She needed time—I think she stilldoes. Her main worry is that you understand her reasons. I assuredher that you understood.’ He looked seriously at Morton. ‘You dounderstand, don’t you, Morton?’
Morton noddedthat he understood, although deep down he didn’t know how he felt aboutit. The bottom line, despite all the reasons offered, was that his ownbiological mother had abandoned him at birth and, as far as she was concerned,wanted nothing maternally to do with him. She had then gone on to haveher own two daughters. As a forensic genealogist, he couldn’t ignore thefacts.
His fathersmiled. ‘Then that’s it—everything’s fine. Back to normal.’
But
