From behind the cover of his sunglasses, he watched the two men intently until the waitress returned with his teacake and small latte. Morton ignored the food and drink and pulled out his mobile.
‘Hello?’ came a gruff reply.
‘Hi, Dad, it’s Morton.’
‘Oh, hello.’
‘Are you okay?’ Morton asked, repeating the same telephone protocol that they had used for years.
‘Not too bad. How’s work?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ Morton answered. It was now time to deviate from the script but he needed to choose his words very carefully. ‘I’m working on a case at the moment that involves the Dyche family in Folkestone. Do you remember them from your time living in Canterbury Road?’
There was a short pause before his father answered and Morton hoped that he hadn’t already perceived the purpose of his call. ‘Yes, yes I do. Golly, I haven’t thought about Mr and Mrs Dyche for a long while. How funny that you should be delving into their pasts. A relative of theirs asking about them, then?’
‘Yes,’ Morton lied.
‘Hmm. Can’t imagine anything funny going on with that pair.’
Morton laughed. ‘Not all my genealogical cases involve funny goings-on. What do you remember about them?’
‘Well, they were just an ordinary couple. He was employed down the gas works for as long as I can remember and she ran their home as a guesthouse. She was a lovely one, made beautiful pastries. Oh, and they always had a dog on the go—usually a springer spaniel.’
‘Right,’ Morton said. Whilst his dad continued talking about the various dogs that the Dyches owned, Morton hunted in his bag and removed his notepad and pen. ‘How old were they?’ Once the question was out of his mouth, he regretted it since it gave away his interest in a particular timeframe.
‘Depends when you mean,’ his father answered. ‘I’d say when your mother and I moved out just after you were born they were in their sixties.’
‘And you say they ran a guesthouse?’
‘That’s right—all manner of folk coming and going.’
‘Do you remember any of them?’ Morton asked, knowing that he was skating on thin ice now.
His father exhaled noisily as he spoke. ‘Not really. You’re going back…goodness…more than forty years.’
Morton decided to take a chance. A very big chance. ‘Do you happen to remember an American family who stayed there in early 1974?’
‘Erm, hang on—it’s ringing a bell. Early 1974?’ Morton could almost hear the cogs turning in his father’s head, as the reason for the phone call polarised. ‘No. I don’t remember. Anyway, I’ve got a lot to do. Better go. Bye.’ And with that, the call ended.
Morton sighed. Why had he been so stupid as to push such an obvious question onto his father? Did he really think that he wouldn’t be capable of making such a transparent connection?
He took a bite of his teacake but he had lost his appetite and discarded it. He gulped the small latte down, paid up and headed back to his car, wishing that he hadn’t been so bungling in his questioning.
Morton parked up outside the guesthouse on Wear Bay Road, a wealthy area to the east of Folkestone where chunky six-bedroomed detached homes were rewarded with uncompromising views across the heritage coast. Morton had booked two nights in the luxury accommodation; his bedroom was large and modern with a sizeable balcony overlooking the sea. Great grass-and-chalk cliffs rose to the east and west and on each hill was situated a dilapidated Martello tower, leftovers from the Napoleonic Wars.
He climbed out of the car and briefly took in the view. The main reason that he had chosen to stay here was neither for the view nor the luxury, but because of the proximity to Canterbury Road—just a fifteen-minute walk away. These were the streets which his ancestors, including his biological father had once trodden. With a slow, mindful gait he began his journey, soaking in the surroundings as he went. Canterbury Road—as he knew from the electoral register—was a long one, with a diverse range of properties from deprived social housing through Victorian terraces to smart modern homes. As the house numbers rose into the hundreds, a ball of discomfort began to form in his stomach. He slowed his pace as he stood outside number 160; directly opposite him were 161 and 163 Canterbury Road. The two houses, painted slightly different shades of cream, were joined together, forever bound in time like their occupants in January 1974. He looked at the two simple properties, typical architecture of the 1930s. He stared hard, as if doing so would force them to reveal their secrets.
Morton closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine standing on this very spot more than forty years ago. He pictured his biological father sitting on the wall in front of the house, chatting coyly to the then sixteen-year-old Margaret Farrier. When he imagined his father’s appearance, he projected an image of himself aged eighteen—that was what his Aunty Margaret had told him that his father had looked like. In Morton’s mind he saw them strolling casually together into town to watch a film at the local cinema before going out for a drink and becoming closer. Why didn’t you ever write to her, Jack? Morton wondered. How very differently his life might have turned out if their relationship had survived for more than one week.
He opened his eyes and continued to be transfixed by the houses, wondering, yet not caring what people in the passing cars must be thinking about the strange man gazing at thin air. The incredible irony that both his biological mother and father and his adoptive mother and father were living here, side by side forty years ago had not escaped him: it was a scenario worthy of some trashy daytime TV talk-show.
Taking out his phone, Morton took several shots
