‘Both are very good ideas,’ he agreed.
‘I know,’ she laughed, sitting back and drinking her drink. ‘Us genealogy widows have our uses, you know.’
Morton smiled as he began to investigate records pertaining to the Korea War. Owing to privacy restrictions, few service records for the period were in the public domain. He started by typing the name Roscoe Jacklin into the search page of Fold3, a genealogy website specialising in military records. Unsurprisingly, the search returned zero results. When he changed the Christian name to Joseph, there was one result. He clicked the entry. It was found in the Medal of Honor Roll.
‘Listen to this,’ Morton said. ‘Rank and Organisation: Sergeant First Class, U.S. Army, 2nd Reconnaissance Company, 2nd Infantry Division. Place and date: Near Yongsan, Korea, November 1st 1950. Birth: San Francisco, California. Citation: Jacklin distinguished himself by conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action against the enemy. While participating in an assault to secure a key terrain feature, Jacklin’s squad was pinned down by withering small arms, mortar and machinegun fire. Although already wounded, he left the comparative safety of his position and made a daring charge against the machinegun emplacement. Within ten yards of the goal, he was again wounded by small arms fire but continued on, entered the bunker, killed two hostile soldiers with his rifle, a third with his bayonet, and silenced the machinegun. Inspired by this incredible display of bravery, the men hastily moved up and completed their mission, and more than 100 hostile troops abandoned their weapons and fled in disorganized retreat. Jacklin, exhausted and injured, then became detached from the division for several days. Jacklin’s indomitable courage, extraordinary heroism, and superb leadership reflect the highest credit on himself and are in keeping with the esteemed traditions of the infantry and the U.S. Army.’
‘Wow. I’m not sure if he was extraordinarily heroic or extraordinarily stupid, but wow—that’s your grandfather,’ Juliette commented.
Morton looked again at the entry. ‘So this happened on the first of November 1950. I’m guessing that he was then discharged from the army and repatriated.’
‘One month later he files for divorce,’ Juliette added.
‘Three years later, he’s three thousand miles away with a new wife, new past and a new name.’
‘Is it reading too much between the lines to suggest that the incident in Korea changed him?’ Juliette pondered. ‘You know, he came back a different man, didn’t want Audrey anymore, but his childhood sweetheart from next door—that sort of thing?’
Morton thought for a moment. The same idea had occurred to him but there was little genealogical fact with which to support it.
‘What happened to the daughter from the first marriage? Any trace of her?’
Morton shook his head. ‘She doesn’t show up in the Social Security Index and I can’t find a marriage for her, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t marry.’
‘Another mystery,’ Juliette laughed.
‘Hmm,’ Morton agreed. Ordinarily, he loved the challenge of trying to unravel a complex and seemingly unsolvable genealogical mystery—it was something upon which he had built his career—but just for once he wished for a simple, straightforward case.
He quickly wrote an email to the Cape Cod Times, requesting that they print an appeal for information on his father, then closed his laptop and sat back to enjoy a coffee with his wife in the glorious Provincetown sunshine.
‘Well, here we are,’ Morton said, tucking the hire car into a bay in front of the White Oaks care home. He switched off the engine and looked up at the building. Cladded in a juxtaposition of oak panelling and off-white render, it looked modern, purpose-built. It was an amazingly odd feeling to think that his grandmother—a lady on whom he had never clapped his eyes—had a room somewhere inside those walls. Or at least did have up to four years ago.
‘Come on, let’s get inside—I need some air-con,’ Juliette said, leading the way to the main entrance. The automatic doors slid open and they found themselves in a reception that was more like a hotel lobby than a care home. It was spacious, open and, best of all, cool. Morton approached the front desk, unsure of exactly how he was going to explain himself.
‘Hi. Can I help you?’ a chirpy lady in a white coat said from behind the desk.
‘Hello,’ Morton began. ‘I’ve come over from England to see my grandmother—she’s a resident here.’ He figured that a simple get-to-the-point statement was much better than the elaborate alternative.
The lady smiled. ‘How lovely. And what’s your grandmother’s name?’
‘Velda. Velda Jacklin.’
Another smile. ‘Lovely Velda,’ she said, tapping something into the computer in front of her.
She was alive, then, surely?
‘And what’s your name, please?’
‘Morton Farrier.’
More tapping. Then a frown. ‘I’m afraid you’re not listed here as family. There are no grandchildren listed. Morton, you say?’
Now the story began to get complicated. ‘She doesn’t know about me, I’m her son’s son.’
‘She doesn’t have any sons listed, either.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t let you see her.’
‘But I’m her grandson,’ Morton protested.
‘But you must understand, sir, we can’t just let anyone in who claims to be related; our residents are very vulnerable with a whole range of healthcare needs.’
‘I do understand, but I’ve come a very long way to see her.’
She sighed. ‘Do you have any documentation that shows you’re related to her?’
There was a question. ‘No, I don’t.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can do, sir, I’m sorry—I really am.’
‘Can
