The yearbook painted a happy picture for his father’s time at school.
Despite feeling like he needed to get on, Morton returned to the front of the book and photographed every single page. Besides his father’s birth certificate, it was the only tangible thing that Morton had that made his father a real person, and not simply a name plucked from history.
Having photographed the year book, Morton carried it back to the shelf. He held it in his hands for a moment longer, before placing it back. Then, he turned to the rows of voters’ lists, pulling 1976 from the shelf and placing it on the table. Town of Barnstable. List of persons seventeen years of age or over. Listed as residents thereof by the Registrars of Voters on January 1, 1976.
The streets were listed in alphabetical order. Morton flipped straight to Ocean Avenue and ran his finger down the page until he reached number 256.
Chipman, Bertram J. Retired
Chipman, Michael H.Student
Chipman, Laura J.Student
Morton photographed the entry, evaluating the information. The most likely scenario was that his father had gone to the house because of Michael Chipman. In his final letter to Margaret in December 1976, Jack had written that he was staying with a friend who was ‘lending him everything.’ Morton guessed that Laura was Michael’s sister and Bertram was their father.
‘School friends?’ Morton questioned to himself, leaping up and grabbing the 1973 high school yearbook again. Flipping just a few pages inside, he found Michael Chipman. And Laura. Twins.
As he looked at their headshots, Morton was certain that they held the key to locating his father. His next steps would be to try and track them down.
Opening his laptop, he ran an online search in the White Pages. Three hundred and eighty-nine Chipmans currently living in Massachusetts. He narrowed the search for Michael. One result. But it was the wrong middle initial and wrong age bracket. Searches for Laura and Bertram also proved to be unsuccessful.
Returning to the voters’ lists, Morton found the family had continued to reside in Ocean Avenue until 1982, when another family had moved in.
Switching between various genealogy websites, Morton ran a series of searches into the Chipmans. His naïve hope that perhaps one of them still lived in the area abruptly disappeared. There was no sign of Laura in official records. The Social Security Index at Ancestry informed him that Bertram Chipman had died in 1982 and Michael had died in 2007.
Morton closed his laptop and packed up to leave the library.
He was fast running out of options.
Chapter Seven
4th August 1950, Cow Hollow, San Francisco, California, USA
It was lunchtime and, despite the chill in the air, the clear skies and high sun had lured people to the open green expanses and panoramic views of the city and sea that were offered by the Fort Mason recreation area. Picnic blankets and park benches were adorned with a motley collection of workers on late lunches, mothers with young children, students, lovers and vagrants.
Velda Henderson ambled along a path that wound its way steeply up from the Aquatic Park Pier. She took a cursory glance to her right to the Golden Gate Bridge. The iconic structure that pulled thousands of visitors to the city each year held over her a constant dark allure. Her mother had succumbed to it and Velda had, on two separate occasions, almost yielded to it, too.
She shuddered, loathing the power that a simple steel structure seemed to hold over her life.
The path finally levelled out and Velda paused to catch her breath. She wanted to sit down—find a bench and eat her sandwich. The first benches at the top of the path were taken, so she continued walking.
She stopped again, this time not to regain her breath, but to avoid being seen. She leapt to the side and ducked down, much to the bemusement of the three occupants—businessmen—sitting on the bench nearest her.
She slowly stood up to check if what she had seen had been correct. It was—Audrey canoodling with another man. So, the rumours that she had been fornicating with someone from her office had been true. And not just any other man, but Dwight Kalinski—the CEO, who was supposedly a devout Catholic, married with four children.
Velda watched incredulously. Audrey had her skirt hitched up higher than was decent and Dwight was running his hand along the length of her thigh. It was just typical of Audrey Fuller—Velda couldn’t bring herself to use her married surname—she craved the unobtainable. The trouble was, her confidence matched her looks in equal measure and most times she got what she wanted. And when she got it, she lost all interest and moved onto something or someone else. It had always been the same—at school, with jobs, with men; if she couldn’t have it, she wanted it all the more.
Poor Joseph. She would have to tell him. Perhaps this time he might listen. Especially since her last warning had proven to be correct; Audrey hadn’t been pregnant at all.
But could she tell him now, really? He was out—God only knows where, somewhere in Korea—fighting for his country. Was it really acceptable to burden him with such devastating news, just months after their wedding day? Yes, she quickly decided, it was her duty. She had heard from Joseph’s brother that the early months of the marriage had been turbulent and that on several occasions their fighting had led to Joseph returning to his old bedroom in his parents’ house.
Velda took one last look, just to be certain, just to rule out any doubt that they were just being friendly. She slowly extended herself onto tiptoes and looked over at the bench. She needn’t have been so cautious—Audrey and Dwight were in the throes
