‘You knew!’ Juliette said, hugging andkissing the pair.
‘He sort of mentioned it the otherday. Told me to keep out the way when you two were bumbling about at thecrack of dawn on Christmas Day.’
‘Let’s get this bubbly open, then,’ Jimbarked, handing the bottle to Morton to open.
The cork popped out noisily and Mortonfilled the four glasses.
‘To Morton and Juliette,’ Margarettoasted.
The four glasses clinked in the air beforebeing raised to four happy mouths.
Fivehours later, Morton, Juliette, Jim and Margaret were collapsed in front of thefire, having eaten a full traditional Christmas dinner and drunk two bottles ofchampagne. Strewn around their feet were pieces of shredded wrappingpaper and neat stacks of assorted gifts. The pile of presents under thetree had dwindled to just one, which Juliette had been particularly guardedabout Morton opening until the very last. She handed it over with a wrysmile.
‘What is it?’ Morton asked, carefully taking it from her. It was thin andlightweight, about the size of a hardback book. He looked at her throughnarrowed eyes, wondering what it could be.
‘Come on, man, get on with it!’ Jim said.
‘Leave him alone, James,’ Margaret said playfully.
Morton tore open the end and carefully removed a box. ‘An Ancestry DNAkit!’ he exclaimed.
Juliette smiled. ‘You have no idea how hard it was to getthat—it’s only available in the US, but I thought you’d like it. Itseemed more comprehensive than the UK tests.’
‘That’s brilliant—thanks!’
‘It doesn’t just test one line, like maternal or paternal, but your wholeethnicity,’ Juliette enthused. ‘Apparently it breaks it down togeographical areas, percentages of this and that. Thought it was up yourstreet and more… appropriate for you.’
Morton glanced up at her with a smile, and as he did so he noticed a strangeconspiratorial look pass between Margaret and Jim. When they saw himlooking in their direction they both redirected their gaze, almostcomically. There is definitely something wrong, Morton thought. Judging by their reaction, it was something that his taking a DNA test mightreveal.
‘Right, I’d better get this mess cleared up,’ Margaret announced, beginning toscoop up the scattered wrapping paper. ‘Then it’ll be time for the next familyhistory instalment.’
‘Or, time for the pub,’ Jim teased. ‘They’re open for a few more hours.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Juliette agreed. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Really?’ Jim asked keenly.
‘Really.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Jim said, jumping up and heading over to the front door.
‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said, shaking her head. She deposited all therubbish in the bin then sat back down in her armchair with a sigh. ‘Don’tbe too long down there, you two.’
‘See you shortly, fiancé,’ Juliette said, planting a kiss on the top ofMorton’s head.
‘Bye,’ he replied, before taking his usual seat at the table. ‘Don’t betoo long, fiancée.’
‘I won’t—The Friary Christmas special’s on later.’
‘Great,’ Morton responded sarcastically, as Juliette and Jim headed through thedoor. The Friary was the last thing he wanted to see. Theprogramme was filmed in a stately home owned by the Earl of Rothborne, who hadbeen embroiled in Morton’s last genealogical case. The future of the showhung in the balance whilst a prominent court case was being tried at the HighCourt, which would decide the very future ownership of the house. Much ofthe evidence being used against the Earl and Countess of Rothborne had beenuncovered by Morton in his quest to find the whereabouts of an Edwardianhousemaid. No, Morton would definitely not be watching The Friary Christmasspecial.
‘Right, today’s unit diary entry, then,’ Morton said.
‘Before you do,’ Margaret began from her seat by the fire, ‘come over here aminute. There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Okay,’ Morton said, instantly fearing the consequences of whatever it was shewas about to tell him. He sat himself down in the chair opposite her andbraced himself.
‘You don’t have to look so worried,’ Margaret said.
‘It’s something to do with my birth, isn’t it?’ Morton said.
Margaret nodded solemnly. She drew in a deep breath and seemed to hold onto it for an eternity. ‘It’s something I wasn’t going to tell you. But after seeing you these last few days doing your genealogy and seeing thatDNA thing from Juliette, I think now it’s something you should be told.’
‘Go on,’ Morton said quietly. He was trying to cancel out the panickedflurry of activity going on in his own mind, as it frantically tried topre-empt his Aunty Margaret with whatever revelation she was about tomake. But nothing in his head made any kind of sense.
Another long pause followed until she spoke, her eyes fixed to her feet. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, but the story about your conception issomewhat inaccurate.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I lied about it… I wasn’t…the story your father told you last year isn’t true:I wasn’t…attacked.’ Her eyes finally met with Morton’s.
‘What?’
‘I mean it was consensual.’
‘Why did Dad tell me what he did, then?
‘He didn’t know. Doesn’t know.’
‘Why did you lie about it?’
‘Shame. Morality. Other people’s attitudes—I was sixteen,remember.’
Morton felt as though he had just been kicked hard in the stomach, as hisunderstanding of his own past took on yet another new form. For the pastyear and a half, he had been struggling with the inconceivable notion that hisfather was a rapist, that half of his DNA stemmed from a vile criminal whom hewould never meet, nor would ever want to meet. But despite that starkhorrible fact, questions about his father had remained, raising their uglyheads, demanding answers. What was his name? Where did he comefrom? Who were his parents? Did he father other children?
Morton refocused. Margaret was silently weeping.
‘I’m sorry, Morton—I really am. I know how hard it must be to hear allthis.’
He knew he should get up and comfort her, to tell her that it was okay, but hecouldn’t. He was fixed to the armchair, weighted down by the impact ofher confession. His real biological father was a normal man. A manout there, living somewhere. ‘Who was he?’ he asked in a small, squashedvoice.
Margaret tugged a handkerchief from
