‘Did she ever talk about Charles?’ Mortonasked, aware that he was allowing the conversation to stray slightly off-topic.
Margaret shook her head. ‘Not that Ican recall. I suppose it was so long ago, wasn’t it? He’d been deadwhat…well, it was exactly sixty years. Even her second husband, Len haddied by then.’
‘So then what happened?’
‘Then the event happened. Granny called for the village midwife, Mrs Blake, who turned up on an oldthree-wheeled bicycle and helped me to deliver upstairs in my bedroom. Theevent was over, Mrs Blake left and Granny took the baby and put it—sorry,you, away into another room and called your father. A few hours later heand your mum arrived to collect you.’
‘That must have been hard for you,’ Mortonsaid, almost inaudible against the noise of the wind.
‘Yes, it was. It really was. But there I was being told by everyone that it would be in your best intereststo be looked after by Peter and Maureen.’ She paused. ‘It was onlywhen I had my own children that I realised how right they were—I was in noposition to give you a life. Fortunately life gave me another chance withJess and Danielle.’
He didn’t know why, but her last sentencecut right through him, like a cold knife. He had learnt and understood somuch, and yet the inescapable truth was that she had given him up then gone onto have two further children, whom she had kept, nurtured and cherished.
Margaret sensed his unease. ‘Sorry,that can’t have been a very nice thing to hear. I didn’t mean it how itsounded.’
‘It’s fine. Why shouldn't you havegone on to have children with Uncle Jim?’ Morton said. He needed to movethe conversation on. ‘So how long did you stay on with Nellie after thebirth?’
‘A good few weeks. I think sheneeded to see that I was totally over the birth—no baby blues or that I wasn’tgoing to do anything silly. I remember, she had a real thing for metelling her my feelings. She always wanted to know what was in my head.’
‘And did you get over the birth okay?’Morton asked. ‘It can’t have been easy for a sixteen-year-old—especiallygiven the circumstances of how it happened.’ Morton shot a glance atMargaret to see how his comment—obliquely touching at the sensitive subject ofhis conception—had been received. From her reaction—face flushed andclearly embarrassed—he had skated too close.
‘It was fine,’ she stammered, turning herhead away from him.
He had pushed too far.
Margaret removed her arm from his andbegan fishing in her pockets, mumbling something incoherently. ‘Polos,’she finally said, pulling out a packet. ‘Would you like one? Ialways enjoy them on a walk like this,’ she said cheerfully.
Morton reached out for one and thankedher. He knew that was it; any other questions, fears or worriessurrounding his birth and adoption would have to wait—possibly indefinitely,for an answer. His Aunty Margaret, just like his father, had a knack ofswitching off a conversation like a light.
Mortontook one of the multitude of free parking spaces available on Helston highstreet. The town—the nearest to Cadgwith—was, like the rest of Cornwallout of season, eerily quiet. Strings of lights and colourful Christmasdecorations neatly laced up opposing shops along the length of the road. The wind had continued to batter the peninsula; the ominous dark clouds abovelooked like the current break in the rain was just going to be a short pause.
‘So, how do you feel now?’ Juliette asked,as she clambered out of the Mini. Their entire conversation on the drivehere had been dominated by Morton recounting his morning walk with Margaret.
‘I don’t know really,’ he replied, takingher hand in his. ‘It’s weird. On the one hand, it addresses gapsthat my brain has questioned over the years, but on the other, it felt like shewas talking about someone else. That baby was me…and yet it didn’t feellike that. She’s my mother…but not. Like I said, it’s weird.’
Juliette nodded and squeezed hishand. ‘I get it. Sort of. Do you think there’s more to besaid?’
Morton considered the question. ‘It’s hard to know. I feel like she’s holding back on something, butowing to the way it all happened to her, I feel I can’t really probe toodeeply.’
‘Well, I think that what you’re going tohave to do is to let your mind relax and when questions pop into your head,sort them out into ones you can actually ask her—like things that went on withher granny—ones that she’d be happy to answer and ones that you just can’t askat the moment. Maybe one day the time will come when she can talk aboutit.’
Morton nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he saidquietly. ‘Shall we go for a pasty lunch somewhere?’
Juliette laughed. ‘You really are aFarrier, Morton.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, the way you can cut from aserious topic straight to the banal. From adoption to pasty in one fellswoop.’
Morton smiled and led them into acosy-looking café with fake snow sprayed all over the steamed-up windows. The warmth of the place hit them instantly and they both realised then how coldthey had been on their short stroll from the car.
‘Table for two?’ a young lad asked,attempting efficiency by speaking to them whilst twirling to grab twomenus. He failed miserably and dropped them to the floor.
‘Yes, please,’ Juliette answered, tryingto stifle a snigger.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, flushing red. ‘There you go. Follow me.’
They followed him over to a table in thecorner of the room.
‘Here we are,’ the waiter said, proudlyindicating a small table beside an over-dressed Christmas tree, crowned by agarish, lopsided fairy.
‘What drinks can I get you?’ he asked,producing a scrawny notepad and pen.
‘Latte for me, please,’ Morton said.
‘Same for me, please,’ Juliette added.
‘Lovely,’ the waiter mumbled, darting off.
‘Aren’t there laws about under-agechildren working in cafés?’ Morton whispered across the table.
‘Bless him,’ she said with a smile, as sheskimmed the laminated menu. ‘I think I just fancy a pasty. What about you?’
‘Yeah, traditional Cornish pasty will belovely.’
The waiter returned with a trayprecariously balanced on one hand, fingertips splayed underneath. As helowered the tray to
