Margot gave a yelp. ‘Oh my word! Where did you spring from?’ she gasped, throwing a hand to her chest. ‘You’ve almost given me a coronary.’
‘Sorry,’ Morton murmured. ‘Wasn’t sure who might be asleep.’
‘Both of them,’ she answered with a smile, standing up and pulling Morton into a tight squeeze. ‘It’s lovely to be here, Morton.’ She had put on a little weight since he had last seen her, but had yet to update her wardrobe accordingly; her light jeans and white blouse revealed more of her lumps and bumps than she had probably intended. She’d had her hair styled recently by the look of it and dyed a chestnut brown.
‘Nice to have you,’ he responded, not entirely truthfully. Glancing around the room, he caught sight of some subtle changes which he knew to be Margot’s handiwork. ‘How’s the baby been today?’
Margot closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, as if recalling some amazing exotic holiday. ‘A treasure—an absolute treasure. And, we think we’ve come up with a name! You’ll love it!’
‘What is it?’ he asked cautiously, not liking having been excluded from the process.
Margot lowered her voice. ‘Don’t tell Juliette I told you, will you?’
Morton shook his head, though of course he was going to tell her.
‘Matilda!’ she exulted.
‘Matilda?’ Morton repeated, looking around the room for the baby name book. They couldn’t possibly have finished it all today in his absence. Matilda Farrier. He didn’t not like it, but he just wasn’t sure it suited her. ‘Matilda.’
‘Lovely, isn’t it,’ Margot breathed. ‘It’s German for powerful fighter.’
‘I see,’ Morton said, not particularly enjoying the mental image that his brain was conjuring up of his daughter’s face on a centurion’s body. ‘Where did my shortlist go?’
Margot waved her hand. ‘I threw it away—lot of old nonsense. What were you thinking?’ she asked, delving her hand into the bin and pulling out a scrunched-up piece of paper.
This wasn’t going to help.
‘Cloud, Cookie, Countess, Day, Diamond, Dragana, Ecstasy, Elton and Fudge? Really?’
‘They were joke ones,’ he answered.
‘Very amusing,’ Margot replied, tearing the paper into pieces and tossing them back into the bin. ‘Now, would you like some dinner? I’ve just cooked up a batch of shepherd’s pie and potted them up in individual portions for the freezer. Would you like one?’
‘Yes, please—thanks,’ Morton said, his mind still evaluating the name that his mother-in-law seemed to have bestowed upon his daughter. Matilda. He wasn’t sure. All he could think of was the Roald Dahl book. From what he could recall from his primary school days when he had last read it, she was a nice enough character. Maybe the name would grow on him.
‘Here you go,’ Margot said, presenting him with a plateful of pie. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, watching her float from the room. Evidently, she had other more important things to be getting on with, which suited him fine. He pulled out his mobile and began to scroll through the photographs which he had taken at The National Archives.
Then Margot unexpectedly reappeared, plopping a supermarket hessian jute bag down onto the table in front of him. ‘A present.’
Morton looked at her quizzically.
‘My grandmother’s bits and pieces—that’s the lot, I’m afraid. The contents of this bag have come down through the women of the family—from gran to my mother to me. Juliette then Matilda will have it.’
Morton’s eyes suddenly lit up. ‘Oh, wow!’ He set down his knife and fork, pushed the plate to one side, then pulled the bag closer. He felt like Grace was one of his own close family now and he was eager to delve into the contents of the bag.
The first thing that he pulled out was an old photo album. Morton opened it to see that the first picture was of a middle-aged man and lady, smiling at the camera behind a large white cake. Below it, the caption read, ‘The Silver Wedding Anniversary of Cecil and Grace Barwise, 1936.’
It was the first time that he had seen Grace—or Cecil, for that matter. She wasn’t how he had imagined her to be. The lady in the photograph, with small round spectacles, was elegantly dressed with a delicate, gentle face and warm smile; she looked the polar opposite of a woman who had struck the Prime Minister before being dragged off by police and locked up in Holloway where she had to be force-fed.
Cecil, moustached with dark oiled hair seemed stolid, statesmanlike.
Margot leant over his shoulder. ‘Ah, my lovely grandparents.’
‘What do you remember about them?’ he asked, turning the page to see more snaps of the gathering.
‘Well, I was quite young…maybe around ten when grandad died, so my memory of him is a little sketchy. He was very quiet…would spend most of his time pottering down his allotment or messing about in the garden. He liked an ale or two down the local with his mates. Granny, I think, died when I was in my early twenties, so I’ve got a better recollection of her. They both doted on my mum. She was their only child, then, when my brothers and I came along, they fawned over us, too. After grandad died she came to stay for long holidays, Christmases…that kind of thing.’
‘What was Grace like as a person?’ Morton enquired.
Margot smiled at whatever thoughts were being brought to mind. ‘Just lovely. Very caring, attentive. We never disobeyed her: there was something about her that commanded respect without her ever having to ask for it. I don’t once recall her raising her voice or telling us off
