‘Hi,’ he greeted Juliette, meeting her on the stairs. ‘You get changed, I’ll get the wine.’
She kissed him on the lips. ‘Have you remembered that Lucy’s coming over tonight?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Morton said exasperatedly, dragging out the word. It was a lie; he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘You need me to go out—it’s fine.’
‘No,’ she said, taking a tone. She had seen straight through him. ‘We’re talking flowers. Stay or go, it’s completely up to you. I’m sure Lucy will be delighted to hear your opinions on boutonnières, corsages and chair swags.’
Morton stared at her, unblinking, as he waited for the words that he had just heard to make any sense. But they didn’t. And so, following a quick dinner, he found himself with a large glass of red wine, back up in his study, reopening the laptop lid.
He couldn’t face any more research into William’s family; he needed a fresh angle.
In light of what he had learnt at Barbara’s house, Morton decided to try the 1939 Identity Card Register on the FindmyPast website. Starting with Elsie, he entered her name and year of birth. From the list of possible matches, it was obvious which Morton needed, so he clicked through to see the original household.
Address: Bramley Cottage, Nutley, Sussex
Surnames and other names: Finch Goodall, Elsie
M or F: F
Birth: 7 Aug 1919
S, M, W or D: Married
Personal occupation: Unpaid dom. duties
The entry was exactly as Morton had been expecting. Even the strike-through on her surname, showing that she had later remarried, was standard. Next, he rather pointlessly tried William Smith. Not only were there three hundred and sixty-four William Smiths born in 1919 alone, but it was also very rare for anyone serving in the military to be included in the register, so the exercise was fairly useless.
He sipped his wine and ran a search for Lawrence’s mother, Agnes Finch. Her entry was the top of the results list. He clicked to see the original household and the sepia page, replete with blue ink splodges, loaded onscreen. Agnes was listed as a fifty-year-old widow, her occupation given as ‘retired midwife’. Four solid black bands ran through the entry below, stating This record is officially closed, which meant several possibilities, the most likely being that that the four people who had been living there in 1939 were either still alive, or their deaths had occurred since the register had closed in 1991 and had not yet been opened.
Below the four blacked-out entries was the name of one further person living at Cliff House: Daniel Winter, born 1917. He was listed as single, his occupation given rather vaguely as ‘home’.
Morton remembered what Paul and Rose had said about their aunt Kath and her daughter, Tamara still living up at the house. One of those blacked out entries must be Kath, Morton reasoned, because she’s still alive.
A quick search in the online electoral registers confirmed that Mrs Kath Forsdyke and Miss Tamara Forsdyke were the current occupiers of Cliff House. He laced his fingers together behind his head, sat back and stared at their names and address onscreen. Despite what Paul and Rose had said, he had to try speaking to them again. Perhaps the daughter, Tamara would be more approachable. His eyes lingered on their phone number, wondering whether or not to make the call.
A lightness from the wine rose inside him and he picked up the phone and dialled the number. It was answered quickly by a female voice, but, from the brevity of the greeting, Morton was unable to determine who had answered.
‘Hello, could I speak to Tamara Forsdyke, please?’ he asked courteously.
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, hello,’ he greeted, practically singing, so cringingly sweet was his voice. ‘My name’s Morton Farrier and I’m a forensic genealogist. I’m working on a wartime case at the moment, which I believe you might be able to help me with.’
‘Well, that sounds jolly exciting. I’d love to help out,’ she extolled. ‘But I’m not sure if I can. What is it concerning, exactly?’
‘It’s about your uncle, Lawrence and his wife, Elsie. Would you mind if we met up to talk about it?’
‘Absolutely,’ Tamara said. ‘Why don’t you come to my house? I’ve got a lot of meetings on at the moment, but evenings are generally free. How about tomorrow evening, or the one after?’
Morton smiled. He had found a way in. ‘Tomorrow evening would be perfect,’ he answered.
‘Excellent. Then I shall see you here around seven,’ Tamara said. ‘Goodbye.’
She ended the call, not having given Morton her address. She clearly assumed that given that he was in possession of her phone number, that he also must be aware of where she lived. He needed to go there prepared and so sat writing a list of questions to ask.
Some time later, he tiptoed down to the kitchen, not wanting to be drawn into the abominable-sounding conversation taking place between Juliette and Lucy in the lounge. Having quietly topped up his wine, he headed back upstairs and began sifting through a lengthy Google search of available wartime records.
He stopped scrolling when he spotted a link to the Mass Observation Archive. He clicked through and read about it. Between 1939 and 1967 ordinary men and women all over Britain were asked to keep diaries of their personal, everyday experiences, notably during the war years. It was worth checking to see if anyone had kept a diary in the Hawkinge or Capel-le-Ferne area. He went to the University of Sussex website and accessed their online index. He was presented with various search options. He left all fields blank except residence. Hawkinge—no results. Capel-le-Ferne. One result—diarist number 5059, a single female born in 1869.
Morton clicked for further information.
