It still didn’t make sense to Morton. He was certain that Alice was withholding information. ‘Do you know what they were fighting about?’
Alice shook her head. ‘No—probably normal teenager stuff. After that, he just took off.’
‘Did you never wonder what happened to him?’ Juliette quizzed, the policewoman in her making an appearance.
‘Sure I did, but it was his choice. After what happened I understand that he wants to be left alone.’
The cutting nuance of her voice was palpable. Morton shot a look at Juliette, then caught Jan’s uncomfortable shifting in her chair.
‘Why don’t you show Morton the bits that survived the fire?’ Jan suggested to Alice, then turned to face him. ‘There were a few pieces that survived—God only knows how.’
‘Come to the front room,’ Alice said.
‘You two go,’ Jan said to Morton with a sweeping swoosh of her hand. ‘Juliette and I are going to stay here and enjoy the last of the sunset for a bit longer.’
Juliette smiled, sat back in her chair and drank more of her wine.
Morton heard Jan beginning to ask her questions about what she did for a living, as he trailed Alice back inside the house to a room at the front. Two of the walls had custom-made, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crafted around the door and the front-facing window. The other two walls were covered in various works of art. Alice headed to one of the shelves, withdrew a book of some kind and handed it to Morton. ‘One of my most treasured possessions,’ she said almost inaudibly.
It was a photo album, light in his hands. That it had suffered in a fire was indisputable. The original tan leather was only visible in one small circular patch; the rest was tarnished with a charcoal residue that felt slightly greasy to the touch. Morton lifted it to his nose. He was able to detect the faintest whiff of acrid smoke. Having once lost a house in an explosion, it was a smell that he knew only too well. He placed the album down on an old-fashioned wooden school desk in front of the window and turned the first page.
‘That’s us,’ Alice explained without emotion.
It was an informal photo that made Morton smile. He recognised the location—it was taken in the front garden of 2239 Iyanough Avenue. The house—pre-fire—was completely different to that which now stood in its place. Standing on the lawn was a man in a yellow shirt and brown trousers, whom he recognised as being his grandfather. In one arm, with her face towards the camera, was Alice. Morton estimated her to have been around the age of five. Beside them, looking at the two- or three-year-old Jack in her arms, was his grandmother, Velda.
‘That was around 1959 or 1960,’ Alice remarked. ‘The earliest photo I have of anyone in the family. I guess that sounds crazy to a genealogist, right?’
‘Frustrating more than crazy,’ Morton responded. ‘Do you mind if I take photos of the pictures?’
‘Sure—go ahead.’
Having taken a photograph, he turned to the next double page. They contained an assortment of photos all taken at the beach. There was a close-up of his father, Jack, wearing swimming trunks and holding a beach ball. Another of Velda and the two kids paddling in the sea. Another—presumably taken by one of the children—of his grandparents with the tops of their heads missing.
‘Hyannis, summer 1962,’ Alice commented.
The next page contained more snapshots of visits to parks, zoos and beaches. As Morton took photos, Alice outlined the locations and dates.
‘How are you folks getting on, then?’ Jan asked, peering around the door.
‘Lovely album,’ Morton said. ‘Thank goodness it survived.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ Jan said, entering the room and looking over his shoulder. ‘Oh, I just love that picture of my little Ali! How old were you, there?’
‘About ten, I guess.’
Morton turned the page to see several photographs of his father posing outside the front of the house.
‘His first day at Barnstable High School,’ Alice said. ‘He was so excited about it—he loved school—loved learning.’
‘Really?’ Morton said, getting his first snippet of his father’s personality. ‘What were his favourite subjects?’
‘Art, history, math, literature—most things.’ Alice smiled warmly—the first genuine smile of the evening, Morton believed.
‘And what was he like at home? What were his hobbies, pastimes?’
‘Like most boys, he liked his sports. Going out on his bike. Sailing. Sea fishing with our dad. Reading. As he got older, he was interested in archaeology, history—that kind of thing. He managed a couple of semesters at Boston, then dropped out.’
‘To do what?’ Morton asked.
‘Shop work for a while—a grocery store on Main Street called Rory’s. He quit that and then started working for Mr Chipman.’
‘Really? Doing what?’
‘Something up at Lothrop Hill Cemetery—maintaining the grounds—recording who was buried where—I don’t know, exactly—it was all just before the fire.’
‘Sounds like something I would do,’ Morton remarked.
‘Like father, like son,’ Jan laughed.
‘England,’ Alice said when Morton turned the page. ‘The last photos in the album are of their holiday to England in 1974.’
Morton scanned the images quickly, hoping to see one of his biological mother and father together, but there was none. The pictures were mainly of a day trip to London—Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the River Thames and one of the royal parks. Others had been taken at landmarks that Morton recognised—Canterbury Cathedral, Dover Castle—there was even one taken on Mermaid Street in Rye—almost directly opposite Morton’s house. It was a peculiar feeling to know that his father had once trodden the cobbles outside his home. ‘I was hoping to see them together—my biological mother and father,’ he said.
‘Maybe one day you will,’ Alice replied. ‘You seem pretty tenacious in your investigations, I
