She was right, of course. And he had already begun working on his next steps: to trace each and every one of his father’s classmates. He wouldn’t give up until he had found him, even if he didn’t wish to be found; he had to hear those words from the man himself.
In the darkness of his mind, his thoughts continued to mull over his research. Had he done everything he could? At least, given that he was on honeymoon, had he done enough?
‘Here, I got you a water,’ Juliette said, hauling him back to the present moment. ‘And I found this for you, too.’
Morton held out his hand and took the water. With his eyes half-shut, he glanced up to her other hand. Nothing. Then, he saw the figure standing beside her.
It was him.
Chapter Nineteen
24th December 1976, Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, USA
Velda opened her wardrobe door and admired the impressive stack of Christmas presents. Boxes and packages of various sizes. And such beautifully decorative wrapping! They look like something out of the window display in Woolworth’s, she thought, as she bent down to pick them up. It was the same routine each year—they had an evening meal together, then Velda would arrange the presents neatly under the tree in the sitting room where they would sit together and play board games—Monopoly was the usual favourite—until bedtime. She smiled at the recollection of countless past Christmases, all now smudged together into one warm memory. How quickly time has passed, she lamented. Memories of her own childhood Christmases back in San Francisco were sketchy and thin. She could see herself and Beatrice opening presents, laughing, singing and eating. Yet the memory of her mother was inanimate—almost like a hidden part of Velda’s mind was projecting a static mental image of her. Velda could see her now—sitting in her favourite spot, not moving, not joining in the gaiety that surrounded her, not even blinking. Velda had no memories at all to call upon of her dad at Christmas, a sad notion that repeated itself at some point every holiday season.
She pulled herself back from her memories and continued carefully selecting gifts from the wardrobe. With a small pile in her arms—she didn’t want to crush the delicate bows and ribbons—Velda headed out of the room to the stairs. She paused outside Alice’s bedroom. She could hear low whispers between Jack and her—too quiet even to catch the gist of their conversation. She could take a good guess, though. Jack had gotten into yet another fight with his dad about the past.
Velda continued down the stairs with her pile of presents, wondering where all this friction was going to end up. The secrets of their past were returning. For the last few months they had been wondering where Jack had been getting his information from—then yesterday Roscoe had taken delivery of the mail and had seen a letter addressed to Jack, postmarked in San Francisco.
Had they done the right thing? Velda wondered, as she set the presents down in front of the tree. They had talked endlessly about what to do with the letter. It was Velda, in the end, who took the decision to steam it open and read the contents out loud to her bewildered husband. By the end of the letter, Velda’s voice was quivering. It was from George and Lucy—evidently part of ongoing correspondence—and made explicit the details of what had happened to Audrey and her baby. She had stood staring at Roscoe, completely aghast. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.
‘We always knew the day might come,’ Roscoe had finally said.
‘Yes,’ Velda had agreed absentmindedly. But, actually, she hadn’t thought that the day would ever come; she thought their meticulous reconstruction of the past had worked. Maybe they had been too defensive in their handling of Jack’s curiosity about the family. In hindsight, it was inevitable that a kid like him would find a way to the truth. Always inquisitive, that boy…
‘Now what do we do?’ Velda had stammered.
Roscoe had shrugged. ‘It’s over—one way or another.’
In their haze of shock, they had failed to hear Jack entering the room. He had seen the open envelope beside the kettle, snatched the letter from his mother, then had hastily read it.
Velda pulled herself back to the present and blinked away the tears in her eyes that ran from the memory of the ensuing argument. Neither Jack nor Roscoe had handled it well—both of them were as fiery and stubborn as the other. Negotiating between the two of them, they had agreed with her to discuss the situation after a normal Christmas. And that’s just what they were going to have.
‘What a lovely tree,’ Velda whispered to herself, painting on a false smile, and forcing the recent trouble to the back of her mind. It was a Nova Scotia Balsam, a fine-looking specimen that she had covered with tinsel, baubles and lights. With the presents underneath, it looked just perfect—possibly the best one that she could remember.
Switching off the main house lights, she selected a Christmas album, placed it on the record player, took a deep breath and closed her eyes to steady her mind.
Moments later she reopened her eyes and looked at the clock. Six forty-five. Just enough time to squeeze in a few games before bed. ‘Where’s he gone?’ she muttered, shifting the boxes of Christmas chocolates to the end of the table, giving them space to play.
‘Roscoe? Hurry up!’ she called, doubting that her voice would have carried down to the basement. She moved to the top of the stairs. The light was still on down there—goodness only knew what he was doing. ‘Roscoe! Would you hurry up—we’re almost ready to play.’
She sighed as she waited, then she called out again. ‘Roscoe
