Morton nodded as tears welled in his own eyes.
‘His name was Jack. He was abouteighteen or nineteen at the time and he was American. He was-’
‘American?’ Morton interjected, trying toabsorb the pace of the information that he was receiving.
‘Yes, American.’
‘From which part?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve gotsomething in my head that he might have mentioned Boston and a degree in archaeologyor something. He was staying with his parents in the guesthouse next doorto us in Folkestone. He was there for a few days and we gotfriendly. We would just sit outside chatting, wandered around towntogether—that kind of thing. Then on his last day he took me to thepictures and afterwards we sneaked into a pub, had a few drinks and…we gotclose. The next day he went back to America and I never heard from himagain.’ She sat back and sighed. ‘He said he would write with hisaddress, but he never did.’
‘So no further contact with him?’
Margaret shook her head vehemently. ‘Nothing.’
‘Do you know his surname?’ Morton askedsoftly. His father’s surname. His surname. Theone he should be giving to Juliette. He thought it ironic that just a fewhours ago he had fully embraced the Farrier surname because even if he hadknown the identity of his father, he wouldn’t have wanted to take hisname. But now this…
Margaret shook her head again. ‘No,he was just Jack.’
In just a few short minutes, Morton’swhole perception of his past had shifted on its axis. For the first timein his life, he knew who his biological parents were, albeit with limitedpaternal knowledge. Despite the emotional depth of what he had been told,on a genealogical level, the information was scant and inadequate. ‘Isthere anything else?’
‘No, sorry,’ she answered.
‘What about his appearance?’
Margaret sniffed and laughed. ‘Justtake a look at a photo of you at eighteen and you’ll see what he looked like.’
Tears began to roll down Morton’s cheeksas a visual image of his father entered his head. He looked like him andshared his interest in history.
‘Listen, Morton. I know what you’regoing to do next and I sincerely wish you luck with it. But please, promiseme I won’t ever get to hear about it. Not anything at all.’
Morton knew to what she referred. ‘Ipromise.’
‘And I think the same should go for yourfather, too. It would be enough to give him another heart attack.’
The weight pinning Morton down had lifted;he crossed the room and hugged his Aunty Margaret. Reciprocal tearsflowed, embodying a complex tangle of emotions that had spanned forty years.
The truth had, at last, been revealed.
After several seconds, it was Margaret whobroke the embrace. She dabbed her eyes and said, becoming stoic, ‘Well,this certainly won’t do. I’d better get in that kitchen and getwashing up.’
Morton couldn’t help but smile atwitnessing that peculiar Farrier family trait once again kicking intoaction. The hit-and-run gene. ‘I’ll come and dry up foryou.’
‘No need,’ Margaret called. ‘I’drather you read the diary for today and did some more research. You’regoing home tomorrow—we’re running out of time!’
Under normal circumstances, Morton mighthave persisted, but he guessed that she needed time by herself to comprehendthe implications of her own confession. ‘Okay,’ he responded, switchingon his laptop. Before he did anything else, and while it was still freshin his mind, he created a new file entitled Jack. In it, hequickly typed all that he had just learnt about his biological father, whichamounted to just a few short sentences. Many would have considered thelimited information hopeless, but he was a forensic genealogist: he wouldfind his father.
‘Come on, then!’ Margaret hollered fromthe kitchen.
‘Sorry, just got distracted.’ Opening the Battalion unit diary, Morton scrolled down to the correctentry. ‘Here goes. 25th December, Le Hamel. Inspite of the fact that at one time on the evening of 24th we wereordered to proceed at 9am Xmas day to relieve the 6th Brigade nearCambrin, we escaped, for the order was cancelled at 11.30pm on 24th. Xmas day was spent in peace, the Brigade, however, being prepared to move at anhour’s notice. Princess Mary’s gifts and their Majesties’ Xmas cards wereissued.’
‘So, a peaceful Christmas for GrandadFarrier, then,’ Margaret pondered from the kitchen. ‘Not quite theromantic truce in No Man’s Land that I had envisaged, but at least he wasn’t inthe trenches. A near miss, though, by the sounds of it.’
‘Are you sure I can’t read the entry forthe 26th already?’ Morton pleaded.
‘Very sure!’ came the reply.
It was really starting to goagainst his genealogical grain to sit on a document that held suchimportance. But, wait he would. His thoughts returned to CharlesFarrier’s will. What was it that had bothered him about it? he wondered,reopening the document onscreen. He re-read it for the umpteenthtime. It was a standard, simple last distribution of Charles’s effects;the content was not the cause of Morton’s unease, he realised: it was thehandwriting. But what about it? Zooming into the document,he studied it carefully, following the neat cursive letter formations. Helooked at Charles’s signature at the bottom of the page. It was theletter h, with a fancy flourish at the tip that he felt he had seensomewhere before. Where had he seen it? The only documentsthat he had seen with Charles’s handwriting on were his will and his originalmarriage certificate. Pulling out his phone, he opened his photographsand began to swipe through the pictures that he had taken since beinghere. He stopped before he reached the image of Charles’s marriagecertificate; something had caught his eye. It was the postcard written byLeonard to Nellie in March 1915. His splayed fingers brought the photo upclose. ‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ Morton mumbled.
‘What’s that?’ Margaret shouted.
‘Hang on,’ Morton replied, franticallytapping keys on his laptop and opening vital documents. ‘Oh my God.’
Margaret came scuttling out of the kitchenwith a tea towel draped over her left shoulder. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Look at this,’ Morton said, sliding toone side so that Margaret had an unobstructed view of his laptop. Heclicked on Leonard Sageman’s 1910 military attestation form and zoomed into hissignature.
‘What am
