‘Yes, that’s right. Susan?’ he asked, shaking her hand.
‘Yes, do come in. I’ve just put the kettle on. Dad’s out in the conservatory—come in,’ she said, leading the way through a hallway, of which almost every inch of wall space was occupied by family photographs. Even though he had no connection to them, it inexplicably pleased Morton that the Dyche family had clearly flourished.
‘Dad—this is Morton.’
From one of four wicker chairs arranged around a small coffee table facing a small but well-tended garden stood a man in his early eighties. He was tall and slender with a slightly podgy tummy, trim white hair and matching moustache.
‘Roy,’ he said with a smile. ‘You found us okay, then.’
‘Yes, no problems. All down to the satnav.’
Tea? Coffee?’ Susan asked.
‘Coffee for me, please,’ Morton answered.
Susan disappeared off into the kitchen and Morton spotted half a dozen cardboard boxes that were on top of the dining table in the centre of the room, each labelled Mum & Dad’s bits. ‘Thank you for digging out the boxes.’
Roy shook his head and pulled a face which suggested that it was not a problem. ‘You sounded pretty desperate. Have a seat and tell me what it is you’re looking for exactly.’
Morton recounted his search for his father, only stopping when Susan entered the room with their drinks and a barrel of biscuits. She pulled up a dining chair and listened intently to the tail-end of Morton’s quest.
‘Golly,’ Susan said when Morton had finished. ‘Well I hope there’s something in one of those boxes. Before we begin, though, take a look at this.’ She leant over and plucked a black-framed photograph from a long pine dresser that was adorned with pictures, plants and ornaments. She handed the picture to Morton. ‘My grandparents—Edward and Irene Dyche.’
Morton studied the colour photograph and could tell instantly that it had been taken outside the house on Canterbury Road. Standing proudly in front of the door, were a middle-aged couple in old-fashioned attire. There was a warmth to both of their faces and, coupled with Roy’s possibly inherited generosity and kindness, Morton imagined his biological father’s stay in their guesthouse to have been a homely pleasurable time. It was strange to think that those two people in the photo had actually met his real father and mother. And his adopted father, come to that.
‘They look like lovely people,’ Morton said, handing back the picture.
‘Yes, they were,’ Roy replied. ‘Very kind, caring parents.’
‘They were smashing people…’ Susan began, before being interrupted by the irritating sound of a mobile phone ringing loudly in the room.
Morton’s mobile. He hurriedly pulled it from his pocket and looked at the caller’s name: Dad. He certainly knows how to pick his moments, Morton thought, embarrassedly declining the call. He probably has some innate sense of what I’m doing.
‘Sorry,’ Morton apologised.
Susan smiled. ‘It’s okay. Shall we make a start on these boxes, then?’
‘Pass the first one over,’ Roy directed and Susan stood and lifted the first one down, placing it on the coffee table. Roy removed the lid and pulled out a bundle of assorted papers and yellowing envelopes.
‘Oh, goodness!’ he exclaimed. ‘All my old letters to them from when I was overseas. Dear, oh dear.’ He pulled one out and began to read it to himself.
Morton smiled politely, fearing that this could be a very long day.
‘Maybe read that later, Dad,’ Susan suggested, pulling an apologetic face at Morton.
Roy suddenly became aware that he had drifted off into his own past. ‘Sorry, yes.’ He set the letters to one side and continued to withdraw the contents, running an inventory as he sifted. ‘My old school records. Mum and Dad’s certificates. Newspaper cuttings. Awards. Old insurance documents…’
Morton sipped his coffee, listening and watching closely.
‘They certainly liked to keep a lot of stuff, didn’t they,’ Susan quipped, eyes widening at Morton. ‘Shall I start on another box, Dad?’
Roy looked up and took a moment to process the question. ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’
Susan shrugged. ‘Anything to do with the guesthouse?’ She looked at Morton quizzically. ‘Which year?’
‘1974. Early January.’
Susan set her mug down and took a box from the table. ‘Do you want to have a rummage?’ she asked Morton.
‘If it’s okay with your dad,’ Morton answered, awaiting permission from Roy. He nodded and Susan passed him a box.
He examined it slowly and methodically, making certain that he was not missing anything, but it contained only a haphazard collection of paperwork that seemed to span the couple’s later life. Outdated car insurance. Pay slips. Magazine cuttings. Recipes. Letters. The odd photograph. Nothing from the guesthouse years and nothing from the 1970s.
His phone began to ring again, drawing the attention of both Roy and Susan.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, taking a brief look at the screen. His dad again. Morton declined the call and switched the phone to silent.
Susan stood, placing her box to one side. Morton could tell from her face that she had not found anything of interest. ‘Nothing in that one. Was yours no good?’ she asked Morton.
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing even for that decade.’
‘Dad, have you had any luck?’ Susan asked.
Roy turned his nose up as he pulled out another wodge of papers. ‘Not yet.’ He screwed his face up and turned to Susan. ‘I’m sure there are some bits from the guesthouse. Unless Gloria threw them out…’
‘My mother,’ Susan explained to Morton. ‘A bit of a minimalist, to say the least. She would quite happily have burnt all this years ago.’
Inwardly, Morton shuddered. How anyone could just discard such important pieces of social and family history was beyond him.
