He decided to wait until the crowds had abated. He walked over to the side of the pier and sat down, his legs dangling a few feet above the water. Below him, a shoal of small fish pinged about in seemingly random directions.
As he stared into the water, he felt for the first time since he had started searching that he might never get to meet his father. He thought of how his grandfather had so easily abandoned his first family and the idea was gaining traction in his mind that perhaps Alice was trying to spare his feelings, that his father simply didn’t want to meet the child that he had unknowingly fathered more than forty years ago. It was a possibility to which he had previously given little thought. He had only really given consideration to two options: that his father was dead or alive. And, if the latter were true, that he would certainly want to meet Morton. This third option—that his father was alive but didn’t want to know him—began to seep more deeply into his thoughts.
He turned to face the hut. The crowds had thinned somewhat—probably as much as they were going to do on a hot day in the middle of the high season. If Alice and Jan were trying to be kind to him, perhaps it was best to just walk away, so as not to upset things further.
He stood up and stared at the hut. Time passed as his thoughts lurched around in pendulum-like indecision. It would be so easy to walk away and just be grateful for what he had already learned on this trip. But he knew that the curiosity about his father’s whereabouts would plague him to the grave; he couldn’t leave without having tried everything, it just wasn’t in him.
Morton crossed to the hut and found Jan handing a wrapped gift to a young woman.
‘Well, hello again!’ she beamed. ‘What’s this—one last tour of the Cape? Where’s that lovely wife of yours?’ she asked, craning her neck to look behind Morton.
‘I’ve left her on a beach in Chatham,’ he replied, trying to force a smile over his distinct lack of joviality.
‘Oh, dear! Hope she didn’t mind. And I’m afraid you’ve missed Ali—she’s taken herself off to our shack up in the sand-dunes to paint.’
‘Do you know when she’s due back?’ Morton asked, glancing at this watch. ‘I was hoping to catch her before we left for New York.’
‘Good question!’ Jan answered, throwing her hands up in dismay. ‘Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. One time she went out there and stayed a whole month.’
‘I don’t suppose I can pay her a visit out there, can I?’
‘That wouldn’t go down too well.’
Morton exhaled sharply. This was his one final chance. ‘Look, Jan, is there anything else you can tell me? I had the impression the other night that perhaps there was something that wasn’t being said. I’m desperate to find him—anything at all you can give me to go on would be a help—even if, when I find him he just tells me to go away...’
Jan grimaced. ‘Listen—I really want you to find your daddy, I really do, but I’m not the one that can help you. Alice has told you all she can—you’ve got her email so ask her any further questions you have. It’s really not my place, Morton—I’m so sorry.’
He knew that he was putting her on the spot. She was uncomfortable. He wanted to say, ‘Why do you have a photo of my dad in your house?’ and ‘Who is the woman with him?’ but he just couldn’t do it. It would be like someone asking him to divulge something that Juliette had expressly asked him not to. ‘Okay,’ he found himself saying. He smiled and pulled her into a hug. ‘It was so lovely to meet you.’
‘And you too.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘We’ll stay in touch—I promise.’
‘That would be great. Bye,’ Morton said, leaving the hut and joining the throng of people pushing their way towards Commercial Street.
He walked briskly with tears in his eyes, now completely certain that his father was out there but did not wish to meet him. Jan’s words rang in his ears as he walked. ‘…Alice has told you all she can…’ She wasn’t allowed to say more.
His quest was all but over.
Chapter Sixteen
3rd April 1954, Barnstable, Massachusetts, USA
Velda was sitting back in the armchair with her eyes closed, listening to the last verse of Doris Day’s Secret Love. She was wearing a pink felt poodle-skirt and had styled her short hair into fashionable curls. She wanted to look her absolute best for him when he got home.
‘…at last my heart’s an open door and my secret love’s no secret anymore,’ she sang along.
The song ended and the arm gently lifted the needle from the record, returning the house to its prior stillness. Velda opened her eyes and looked at the clock with a gasp. There was still so much left to do! What was she thinking?
She hurried into the kitchen and carefully pulled her apron over her hair. The room was large and modern—just like the rest of the house—containing white enamel cabinets, General Electric stove, dishwasher, washing machine and large refrigerator. They had purchased the house for $21,000 last year and it came with the latest in design and technology. It really was the most perfect home for them.
Opening the oven door, she checked on the cake—it looked and smelt amazing. She began to pour some icing sugar into a bowl when the doorbell sounded. Velda glanced at the clock
