‘Well, that’s not something we can do this end, I’m afraid. You’d need to contact the Union Bank in San Francisco and request that they change the date for you—it shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Okay, that’s great—thank you so much.’
‘Will that be everything, Mr Jacklin?’
‘Yes, thank you. Goodbye.’
Jack ended the call, returned the file to the shelf and quietly slipped towards the door. He pulled it open and gasped.
‘Hello, Jack,’ his mom said.
Chapter Nine
18th August 2016, off the coast of Provincetown, Massachusetts, USA
God only knew how his mobile had found a signal. It was patchy enough around his hometown in Rye, and yet here, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with not an inch of land to be seen in any direction, his mobile had found sufficient signal to push through his emails. One email to be precise, from Keith Grant of Grant Funeral Home.
‘Oh wow! Did you see that one?’ Juliette extolled, her voice unified with dozens of others aboard The Dolphin IX, all out for a three-hour whale-watching experience.
They were pressed to a white railing on the side of the boat. Morton looked up from his mobile to see a shattered disc of water tumbling back into the sea, presumably in the wake of a humpback.
‘You didn’t see it, did you?’ Juliette asked accusingly.
‘Yes, I saw it. It was a whale,’ Morton said flatly.
‘What are you doing?’ she quizzed.
‘Reading an email from Grant Funeral Home.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Dear Morton, Thank you for your email. I can confirm that we handled your grandfather’s funeral. It took place on 8th January 1977. He was buried in a two-person plot in Old Neck Cemetery, Hyannis. Our records show that he was born April 3rd, 1928 in Boston, MA and died December 24th, 1976 in Hyannis Port, MA. No further interments have taken place in this plot and the grave is registered to the deceased’s widow, Velda Jacklin. Her address has changed several times over the years, the most recent we have dates to 2012 and is for White Oaks Care Home, Hyannis. I hope this information has been of use to you. Yours, K. Grant.’
‘Does that mean your grandmother’s still alive?’ Juliette asked.
‘It means she was alive four years ago. Maybe she still is, maybe not. She hasn’t been buried with her husband and she’d be eighty-seven, so it’s not unreasonable to assume she’s still alive.’
Juliette’s eyes narrowed as she met his gaze. ‘Gosh, you might actually get to meet your grandmother. How exciting. Shall we try and visit her after this?’
Morton nodded and looked out over the bow of the boat. Land was looming. He spotted the two-hundred-and-fifty-feet-tall Pilgrim Monument which towered over their destination, Provincetown and began to feel the pang of anxiety which had gripped him upon arrival. Without looking for it, they had found his aunt’s place of work. Alice’s Art was a small wooden hut on MacMillan Pier—just yards from their point of departure for whale-watching. It had been with some relief that they had found the hut closed. ‘She obviously likes a lie-in,’ Juliette had quipped, looking at the opening times on the door. ‘It’ll be open by the time we return.’
‘Great,’ Morton had said half-heartedly. Of course he wanted to see her—he needed to see her, but he genuinely feared the outcome of their meeting.
As they powered on towards the shore, more and more of the town drew into focus. The long blurred line of beachfront property began to detach into distinct houses, hotels and businesses. Sun revellers and bathers enjoying the hot sands surrounding the town on all sides pulled into sharpness.
From behind a large grey fisherman’s building appeared Macmillan Pier. Juliette took his hand in hers and gave it a long squeeze. He knew that she had seen it, too: Alice’s Art was open. There was no turning back now—they had to walk past it, like it or not.
The boat slowed down to a gentle crawl—taking away the welcome breeze that had offset the airless heat of the day—nudging close to the pier moorings. A general agitation rippled around them, as the passengers began to gather their belongings and move towards the exit at the rear of the boat.
‘Let’s let everyone else off first,’ Morton said, taking a seat for the first time on the voyage. He sat with a noisy sigh that reminded him of his late adoptive father. Without fail, every time he had sat down—or stood up again, for that matter—he would emit a guttural grunt which, at the time, used to annoy Morton. The memory of it now made him smile. He wondered how he would have broached this transatlantic search for his biological father with him. Their already strained relationship had worsened after Morton had inadvertently revealed his desire to find his father. He had died not long after.
‘Come on, then,’ Juliette urged, tugging at his left arm.
Morton looked around him. Apart from a final few stragglers, the boat had emptied out onto the pier. He stood up and walked together with Juliette off the boat.
It was hot and swarming with tourists milling in and out of the various huts that adorned the pier, like bees around a run of hives. Alice’s Art was right in the centre of the row.
Morton gripped Juliette’s hand. His nerves were beginning to rattle inside him, making his breathing and walking more laboured than usual.
‘Just breathe deeply,’ Juliette reassured him. ‘I’ll be there with you.’
They reached the hut. Morton quickly scanned the people standing nearby. Nobody here who looked like Alice’s profile picture on Facebook.
‘Shall we go inside?’ Juliette asked.
‘I just want to look at these,’ he said, pointing to a display of flora and fauna
