‘Here we are,’ Morton said.
Juliette switched her attention to thecove over which the house looked. ‘What a view,’ she said. ‘Amazing.’
‘I told you it was nice,’ Morton said,placing his arm over her shoulder and pulling her tightly to him. ‘Icould so easily live here.’
‘I don’t think I would ever leave thehouse if I could wake up to that every day.’
‘Not so great in a storm,’ a voicesuddenly chimed from behind them.
The pair turned and there in the porch,with a wide grin on her face, was Margaret. She was exactly the same asthe last time Morton had seen her. To him, she was one of those peoplewho rarely changed or aged. She stood in a flowery dress, hair frizzy andwhite, slightly plump from her fondness for homemade cakes, with a happyglowing face. If she was feeling as nervous as Morton then she certainlywasn’t showing it. ‘Well, don't just stand there, come and give yourAunty Margaret a big cuddle.’
Morton grinned and embraced her.
He closed his eyes and held hertightly. The usual feelings of sugary warmth quickly gave way to anunfamiliar sensation. He was holding his mother. His own,biological mother. It was a day that he had feared, dreaded andlonged for desperately. In a strange kind of way, he was at home. His feelings only served to underline how uncomfortable he had often felt inhis father’s house; an irreconcilable juxtaposition.
Morton pulled back from the hug when hefelt his eyes begin to moisten. ‘Aunty Margaret, this is Juliette. Juliette, this is Aunty Margaret.’
The two women smiled and instinctivelyhugged each other.
‘It’s lovely to finally meet you,Juliette.’
‘You too—he talks about you all the time,’Juliette said.
‘Oh dear,’ Aunty Margaret said, turning togo inside the house. ‘Let’s get in out of the cold.’
They stepped into a dim, surprisinglyspacious lounge with a low-beamed ceiling and roaring open fire. A fatNorse pine was handsomely adorned with fairy lights, tinsel and assortedChristmas decorations.
‘What a lovely place,’ Juliette remarked.
‘It’s not bad,’ Aunty Margaret said. ‘Could do with a lick of paint here and there, but it’s home. Right, Iexpect you’re gasping for a drink, aren't you? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’
‘Tea would be lovely, please,’ Juliette answered.
‘Coffee, please,’ Morton added, takingstock of the room. It was just as he had remembered it; very little hadchanged. The addition of the Christmas tree and decorations only made itseem more homely.
‘You two take a seat and I’ll fetch thedrinks,’ she said, momentarily disappearing from view before her head poppedaround the corner. ‘Actually, why don’t I show you your rooms, then youcan come and go as you please.’
Morton and Juliette followed her up anarrow wooden staircase to a landing offering four doors. Morton’sprevious childhood visits had always meant the eviction of one of his cousinsfrom their bedroom, but now Jess and Danielle had both left home, so he guessedtheir old rooms would now be vacant.
‘The guest suite,’ Aunty Margaret said,lifting a black iron latch and swinging wide the door.
‘Danielle’s old room,’ Morton recalled.
‘That’s right. Well, it still iswhen she returns from her jaunts overseas.’ She turned to Juliette andsaid, ‘She’s an airhostess or whatever you call them—flight attendant. Anyway, for the next five days it’sall yours. Free of charge!’
Typical of a fifteenth-century dwelling,the bedroom offered no right angles, straight walls or level ceilings orfloors, but it did offer a great deal of quirky charm.
Juliette stooped down to look through thewindow. She slowly took in the breathtaking views of the small covenestled between two hills, upon which the village had relied forcenturies. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I just can’t get over that view.’
‘I’ll leave you to enjoy it. I’vecleared some space in the wardrobe, so if you want to unpack, you can. When you’re ready, come downstairs and we’ll have a catch up.’
‘Thanks, Aunty Margaret,’ Morton said,gently squeezing her arm.
‘She’s so lovely,’ Juliette enthused whenthe creaking stairs told her that Margaret was out of earshot. ‘And thisplace. And this village. Why have you never brought me herebefore?’
Morton pulled a you know why face.
‘I meant before your dad told you.’
Morton shrugged, biting hisfingernails. ‘Come on, let’s get downstairs.’
Juliette wrestled his fingers out of hismouth again. ‘Relax. It’s supposed to be a mini-holiday, notan ordeal. Here, help me unpack first.’
Halfan hour later, Morton and Juliette were sitting on a battered green sofa infront of the open fire sipping tea and eating homemade scones. Margarethad brought Morton up to date with news about her two daughters and theirlatest exploits. Much to his disappointment, neither would be coming homefor Christmas, although Morton wasn’t sure if Margaret had requested that theystay away. He had no idea if they knew that he was in fact theirhalf-brother and not their first cousin, as they had always believed.
As Morton and Juliette tucked into theirfood and drink, the lull in the conversation grew to a period ofnear-silence. Only the crackling fire contributed to the sound in thelounge.
Morton swallowed down a mouthful ofcoffee, wondering how best to address the elephant in the room. As alwaysseemed to happen to him at such moments, his brain refused to find a way tonavigate the dangerous and uncharted territory into which he was about tosail. As he sipped at his drink, he selected then discarded words withwhich to open his sentence. Nothing sounded right. Maybe thereare no words, Morton wondered. He took a fleeting glance athis Aunty Margaret. She was slumped comfortably back in the armchair,hands knitted together over her apron with a smile on her face, staring intothe fire. She was a lovely, simple woman. Not simple in herintelligence, just simple in her life. There had never been anycomplications or arguments or problems with Margaret. Her life was justenviously simple. He marvelled at her perpetual sunniness. But wasshe really not feeling the same thing—struggling to verbalise her forty-yearsecret, which she must have hoped would go with her to the grave? Anawful feeling washed over him. What if she had no intention of discussinghis past with him? If she were anything like Morton’s father—herbrother—then difficult situations would be swiftly dealt with by brushing themunder the carpet and pretending that they didn’t exist.
Margaret turned to
