Three film boxes were suddenly placed down on the table beside him. ‘I’ve got you January and February,’ he said with a grin. ‘Plus March, just in case.’
‘Thank you. Also, where would I find more information about a death in Hyannis Port in 1976?’
‘You’d have to go to Barnstable Town Hall in Hyannis for that.’
Morton smiled, thanked him again and then began to thread up the next film.
He inched through every page of every edition, searching the stories, the adverts, the family notices—even the sports pages; but there had been nothing more written about the fire. Morton could only assume that the cause had been accidental and, therefore, not newsworthy. It still didn’t explain why his father felt that he had been blamed for it, however. He slumped back in his chair. Should he continue searching? He looked at the clock—he had been here for four hours already and he still had one further place to go before meeting up with Juliette. It was time to leave.
Morton exited the library onto Boylston Street and jumped on the green T line subway to Government Center. He emerged above ground in the block-paved plaza of City Hall Square, grateful to be out of the stifling underground heat that he had found common to every subway in every country. He side-stepped away from the throng of pedestrians making their way out of the station. In front of him was the building containing the Boston seat of government: City Hall. Not exactly the most beautiful of buildings, Morton noted, as he strode towards it. Imposing and stark, the building was defined by great blocks of cantilevered concrete. He climbed the short flight of steps, entered through the doors and was immediately directed by a police officer to the back of a line winding its way obediently through officious airport-style security.
‘Please remove your bags, belts and coats and empty your pockets,’ a short policewoman yelled at the line. ‘Take laptops or other electrical items out of your bags and place them in a separate tray.’
Morton obeyed, placing a random collection of objects into the grey tray: a leather belt that had seen much better days; a selection of British and American coinage; an old tissue laced with pocket fluff; and his mobile phone and laptop. The tray sailed along the conveyor belt and he passed through the metal detector without issue.
‘Where abouts are birth certificates—vital records?’ Morton asked a lady wearing a City of Boston cap and who looked vaguely as though she worked there.
‘Next floor down,’ she said robotically, pointing to an escalator behind her. ‘Window two-one-eight.’
Morton took two escalators down to the basement, a chilliness rising to greet his descent. He stepped off into a quiet room with a distinctly oppressive atmosphere. Low ceilings. No windows. No furniture. Just polished red floor tiles and great hunks of unpainted concrete; he felt as though he had mistakenly walked into a prison waiting room. Between the concrete pillars he spotted numbered windows. 218 Births. He headed over to it and peered over the granite counter to the open-plan office behind. Thick red tomes—presumably the birth records—surrounded tables of workers on every wall.
A woman with a kindly face smiled and came over to the window. ‘Hi. How can I help?’
‘Hello. I’m looking for my grandfather’s birth certificate.’
The woman’s smile grew. ‘I love your accent—British, right?’
‘Yep, that’s right.’
‘What happened to your face?’
Morton touched the bruise on his right cheek—the painful result of his most recent genealogical investigation back in England. ‘I fell over,’ he lied.
‘Looks painful. So, was your grandfather born here in Boston?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Morton answered.
The woman reached below the counter and produced a small slip of white paper. ‘Fill this in with as much detail as you can and I’ll go look for it, then you pay twelve dollars at the next window and collect it from window two-one-six.’
‘Thank you,’ Morton said, quickly scanning the form to ascertain what was required. ‘Ah, there might be a problem: I don’t know the names of my grandfather’s parents—that was kind of what I was hoping to find out from the birth certificate.’
‘That’s okay—as long as you have the name and date of birth.’
He knew those details off by heart. Roscoe Joseph Jacklin, born 3rd April 1928 in Boston. He completed the form and handed it back.
‘Okay, here’s your payment slip. Take it to the next window and I’ll be right back with the certificate.’
Morton took the green slip of paper, paid the twelve-dollar fee, then stood waiting patiently by window 216.
He pulled out his mobile and saw that he had a message from Juliette. Hi Hubby. Hope you’re having fun. Found your dad yet? I’m just entering the Charles River. Wish me luck. Xx
Entering the Charles River? Swimming? Diving? He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. He clicked reply. ??xx
‘Excuse me, sir?’
Morton pocketed his mobile and looked up. The lady was back. With empty hands and an apologetic expression on her face.
‘There is no birth record for a Roscoe Jacklin born in 1928 in Boston. I shouldn’t do it, but since you’ve come such a long way and all, I checked for several years either side of that date, but there’s still nothing. Are
