‘So, anyway, I went back up to London to the Family Records Centre and tried again, presuming that I’d missed something in my haste, or that perhaps Binney had been spelt incorrectly, or… Anyway, after several hours of fruitless searching, a rather teary and fretful me approached the help desk and asked for their thoughts. ‘Have you tried the adoption register?’ a young man said, quite matter-of-factly. No, I hadn’t, but I did. And there I was, Barbara Binney—adopted.’ She set down her tea and looked at Morton. Her face tightened into an expression that he immediately recognised: an expression that he had seen staring back at himself in the mirror when he had learned of his own adoption at the age of sixteen. It was a look like no other that achingly epitomised the dichotomy of everything changing and nothing changing simultaneously. He supposed that it was the abruptness of it all, like the unexpected death of a close relative: the cruel absurdity that life had to continue.
Her face lightened and she shifted in her seat. ‘And from there, as you can see’—she laid a hand on the large yellow ring-bound file on the table between them—‘it took months of countless letters, emails, phone calls, post-adoption social worker meetings, an abundance of forms from the General Register Office, before finally I received this letter.’ Barbara, with evident intimate knowledge of the contents of the folder, flipped several pages then slid it across to Morton.
‘The Children’s Society holds the records for the Church of England Waifs and Strays Society and has provided your adoption records,’ Morton read, casting his eye down the list of documents held. Adoption agency application form, medical reports, memorandums x4, certificate signed by the mother, inquiries form.
‘Christina Finch—that was my birth name, but I’m not sure if I was a waif or a stray,’ Barbara muttered wryly. ‘Named after my grandmother, apparently.’
Morton smiled vaguely, captivated by the list of documents. Was there out there, somewhere, a whole stack of paperwork pertaining to his adoption? Or was it different for him because he had been adopted by his biological mother’s brother and his wife? Did that matter? Presumably it had still passed through official channels.
‘You were adopted, weren’t you,’ Barbara said, as though she had intuited his thoughts.
‘Yes.’
‘So you understand, then.’
Morton nodded slowly, each movement rattling his brain. He understood fully. ‘So, then what happened?’
Barbara took a deep breath and turned the page in the folder. ‘Then I met with a social worker who went through all the paperwork they held on me.’ She flicked on several pages, then continued. ‘This folder is a copy for you, so you can go through it in your own time. The short story, though, is that it told me that my birth mother was called Elsie Finch and that she was a married woman whose husband wasn’t my father. It took another year of searching to discover that Elsie had died in 2004—I had missed her by just four years.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Morton said, his mind wandering back to his search for his own biological father and the worry that he might also be too late.
His scattered thoughts snapped back when he heard his name again. Barbara was frowning at him, concerned. Concentrate. ‘Sorry, carry on,’ he mumbled.
Barbara’s blue eyes continued to search his face before she spoke again. ‘Is this case a little too close to home for you, Mr Farrier?’
‘No, it’s just making me think, is all,’ Morton answered. He sat up and focussed his mind. ‘So, what is it exactly that you want me to find out?’
‘Quite simply: Elsie’s life during the war, the circumstances surrounding my birth and anything you can find about my birth father.’
Morton nodded. ‘Okay, but I do have to warn you, though, that by the very nature of that period, records are scarce, edited, have information redacted, are subject to closure orders, or have simply been destroyed,’ he warned, sounding more bleak and pessimistic than he had intended.
Barbara agreed. ‘That’s what I found. I’m not entirely useless when it comes to genealogy—I’ve spent hours on the internet, but got nowhere. I suppose I’m looking for something… anything to understand her mind at the time. What made her do what she did?’ She sighed and gazed around the room. ‘Maybe she was lonely and the war made her behave in a way that she wouldn’t otherwise have done. I don’t know. Almost six years of war is a very long time. Was her life really just a drudge of rationing, bombing and Vera Lynn?’
‘I’ll see what I can come up with,’ Morton said, picking up his notepad and shuffling back in his chair, a move which evidently surprised Barbara.
‘Oh, have you heard enough?’
‘I think so, yes,’ Morton said, fully aware of how unprofessional he must have appeared to her. If he was honest, he didn’t have the first idea if he’d taken enough information; his notepad was as muddled as his mind. ‘I’ll be in touch if I’ve got any further questions that your documents don’t answer.’ He stood and offered her his hand. ‘Well, it was good to meet you.’
‘And you—and thank you for taking on this case.’
Morton smiled and headed towards the front door.
‘Good luck with your own family,’ Barbara said, following behind. ‘Give it time.’
Morton nodded and smiled reassuringly, but he detected that inside she was questioning whether or not he was up to the job. As he crunched his way down the pea-beach drive, he wondered if he was up to the job.
He climbed into his red Mini, shut the door and slumped forward, resting his forehead on the cool leather steering wheel. This was his first new case in several weeks and
