Morton went to increase his step, to reach his destination more quickly, when he realised that he had arrived. Sturgis Library, the sign announced. Includes the house built about 1645 by John Lothrop minister of the Barnstable Church from 1639 to 1653. From the front, the library looked deceptively like a very old house with yellow painted weather-boarding and black-framed windows. The rear of the building, however, incorporated a large extension, to which Morton strode.
Dropping his unfinished drink into a bin outside, he entered the library and walked to the help desk.
‘Hi, I’m looking for—’
‘The genealogy section?’ the young librarian guessed.
‘Er, yes, that’s right. How did you know?’ Morton asked.
‘You look like the type,’ she said with a smile. ‘Follow me.’
‘Oh, right.’ He didn’t know whether looking like a genealogist was a good thing or not.
She led him into a room packed with shelves which were brimming with documents. Hundreds, if not thousands of bound volumes containing Massachusetts vital records. ‘What is it you’re looking for, exactly?’
Morton grimaced when he paid attention to the dates of the tomes around him: almost all pertained to records ending in the nineteenth century. ‘Actually, a bit more recent than this,’ he said, before explaining his reasons for coming.
The woman nodded. ‘Okay, so through here, then, we have more modern records that might help you.’ She took him to the front of the building, in the old house. ‘This is the Lothrop Room—built in 1644 for the Reverend John Lothrop, the founder of Barnstable. Lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, amazing,’ Morton agreed, casting his eye around the old room.
‘We’re the oldest library in the United States and as this very room was used for public worship, so it is also the oldest structure in America where religious services were held.’
‘Wow.’
‘And it’s in here that you’ll find voters’ lists for the period you’re looking for,’ she said, pointing to one of the shelves. ‘Over here.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Did you say that your dad went to school in this area?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘So, over there we have a collection of the Barnacle—the year book from the local high school. When was your dad born?’
‘1956,’ he answered, watching as the woman’s head bobbed around whilst she did a quick mental calculation.
‘So, you’ll want the 1973 edition,’ she said. ‘Call me if you need any help with anything.’
‘Great—thank you very much,’ Morton said, making a beeline for the school year books. Why had he never thought about these before? Perhaps because it was not something usually done in English schools. He selected the one for 1973—a thin silver hardback—and rushed over to the large wooden table in the centre of the room. The first pages were dominated by slightly unflattering photographs of the faculty staff. Next came the section headed Seniors.
He paused, holding the page between his fingers. If luck was on his side, he would find a picture of his father in the ensuing pages.
He turned the page and saw the first five students, arranged in alphabetical order. Alongside a headshot photo was a quote from the student, a shortlist of their hobbies and their future goals. Despite wanting to skip through the pages, he took his time. These were his father’s classmates—his friends. He looked at the final entry on the page open before him. Jeanne Elizabeth Hooper. His father would be on the next page.
With a slow, deliberate movement of his hand, he turned it over. And there he was. His Aunty Margaret had been right. When he had asked her what his father had looked like, her reply had been along the lines of ‘…take a look at a photo of yourself aged eighteen...’ The resemblance was uncanny and irrefutable. Morton knew for certain in that moment, that if he had randomly happened upon this photograph he would have known categorically that it was his father. Only his hair—styled in an elaborate wave—set him in the seventies. He looked at the picture for a long time.
Finally, he allowed his eyes to move from the photo to the caption below it. His classmates’ quotes had been poetic, inspirational, motivating. ‘Yesterday’s hurt is today’s understanding rewoven into tomorrow’s love.’ ‘If at first you don’t succeed, don’t worry about it, you’ll get another chance.’ ‘He who gives love, gets love.’
Morton grinned as he read his father’s entry. He clearly had a sense of humour. Keep smiling. It makes people wonder what you’ve been up to. Then he read his father’s hobbies and future plans. Enjoys music, history, milkshakes…plans travel and college. Evidently being blamed for his father’s death in a house fire three years later, then disappearing from the face of the earth hadn’t figured into his plans in 1973. Neither had having a child just a year later.
Morton couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph and mini-biography. Solid genealogical evidence that this man existed. His father. He was getting closer to finding him.
Having taken a series of photographs of the page, Morton pushed on through the book. He found his father in another photo—a group shot of the student council. It was more formal and official in appearance—taken on the school stage by the look of it, with around twenty students facing the camera with their hands together in front of them.
His father turned up again, twice more. Once standing fully kitted up with three other members of the hockey club and
