The Lost Ancestor (30 page)

Jenny sighed.  ‘Doesn’t look like
Martha remained in Canada, does it?’

‘Well, not necessarily,’ Morton
said.  ‘We don’t have any more censuses available to us and, if she died
in Nova Scotia after 1960, then she wouldn’t show up.  She could very
easily have lived in the next house and we’d not know about it.  I could
pay the Nova Scotia Archives to search for her, but judging by their email, it
would be quite a lengthy process.’  He was already processing his next
step and began quickly tapping at the keyboard.  ‘Here we are. 
Canada Voter’s Lists 1935 to 1980.’

Jenny watched with nervous anticipation as
Morton typed Martha’s name into the search box.  Several results in
five-yearly blocks appeared onscreen.  ‘Looks like she’s in Ontario in
1935,’ Jenny said excitedly.  ‘Click it!’

Morton smiled and did as he was
told.  ‘Stone, Miss Martha, teacher.’

‘Living at...’ Jenny pushed her glasses
back onto the bridge of her nose.  ‘102 Wellington Street.’

Morton returned to the previous screen,
scrolled down to the next block of entries and selected 1940.  ‘Still at
the same address,’ Morton confirmed.  He then repeated the process,
checking and finding her living at the same address every five years.

‘She’s gone,’ Jenny said, when the 1965
Voter List failed to show Martha.  He continued his search until 1980 but
there was no sign of her.

Morton frowned and double-checked the
results list but to no avail.  ‘So… Martha lived in Ontario from 1935
until sometime between 1960 and 1965.  Death records online only run to
1938, so there’s every possibility that she died there.  When I get home
tonight, I’ll run some searches and contact cemeteries in the area.’

‘What about passenger lists?’ Jenny
asked.  ‘She could have come back to England.’

‘Yeah, that thought had crossed my mind,’
Morton said.  ‘The problem is most available passenger lists end in 1960,
when we know she was still alive and well in Ontario.  I’ll look into it
more later.  The fact that she was a teacher up until 1960 in one city is
interesting.  There might be records for her.  There’s also a good
possibility that children she once taught might still remember her.’

‘And how do you plan on finding them?’
Jenny laughed.

‘I’m not—I’m going to get them to come to
me.  That’s what forums and message boards are for, Mrs Greenwood!’ Morton
teased.

Jenny smiled and watched as he returned to
the Canadian Ancestry main page, then navigated through to the Message Boards
whose tag line read
The world's largest online genealogy community with over
25 Million posts on more than 198,000 boards. 
Faster than she could
even read the words, Morton tapped out a quick request for anyone who knew of,
or was taught by Martha Stone to get in touch.

‘There—done!’ Morton said as he hit the
enter button.

Jenny and Morton smiled conspiratorially
at one another.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Max Fairbrother
shouted from behind the help desk, ‘the archive will be closing in five
minutes.  That’s five minutes.’

‘Guess that’s us done, then,’ Jenny
remarked, the disappointment evident in her voice.

Morton could see how saddened she was by
the day’s being over.  ‘You’ve got your nice meal with Deidre to look
forward to.’

Jenny visibly cheered.  ‘Oh,
yes.  Are you sure we can’t tempt you?  She might even be able to
suggest something on the case that we hadn’t thought of.’

‘Quite sure,’ Morton insisted.  ‘I’m
planning on calling in on my dad anyway.  You two go ahead and have a good
catch up.  I’ll keep you up to date—don’t worry.’

Jenny smiled.  ‘Come on then, let’s
go.  We’re almost the last left!’

‘I’m
always
the last left,’ Morton
groaned, as he shut down his laptop and scooped up all his belongings.

‘Bye, Max,’ Morton called as they left the
Reference Room.

‘Cheerio, buddy,’ Max replied.

Miss Latimer was still on duty, guarding
the Reading Room like a vicious Rottweiler, snapping at people to hurry up and
leave.  She smiled when she spotted Jenny.  ‘Be with you in a
moment.’

‘Lovely,’ Jenny answered, before following
Morton into the busy cloakroom.  ‘Well, it’s been a lovely day,
Morton.  I’ll get George’s certificates over to you tonight and then we’ll
take it from there.’

‘Great,’ Morton answered.  ‘I’ve had
a good day, too.  It’s been nice having someone to work with.  Have a
lovely evening.’

‘Thanks. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Mark
Drury was feeling anxious.  He was getting impatient waiting for Morton to
appear.  All afternoon he had sat in his car, fiddling with his phone and
watching as the GPS device tracked Morton’s every move, even within the
confines of the archive. 
What the hell can anyone want to do in a
crappy old library all day? 
Mark asked himself. 
How bloody
boring is this bloke?
 

Finally, the steady stream of people leaving
the building suggested that it was closing time.  The GPS signal confirmed
his theory.  He thrust the gun into the waistband of his jeans, got out of
his car and made his way inside the building.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but the archive is closed
now,’ the lady behind the reception desk called to him as he strode past.

‘Just left something in the locker,’ Mark
said, flashing the receptionist an oafish smile.  He could see that the
look on her face suggested that she questioned if she had ever seen him before
now, but she declined to comment further.

Mark made his way to a locker out of her
view and began to pretend to fiddle inside it.  From this vantage point,
at the tip of the bank of central lockers, he could see if Morton approached
from either side.

There he was.

Mark pulled his head back slightly and
watched as Morton passed the end of the lockers and headed into the
toilet.  Now was his chance.  He patted the gun, which was sitting
comfortably on his right thigh and waltzed down between the lockers towards the
toilet.  He briefly considered taking him out in the toilet, but quickly
dismissed it when he spotted CCTV cameras pointing at the main entrance. 
No,
I’ll flash the gun, march him out to his car, then take him off somewhere
quiet.
   He grinned and made his way to the toilet.

‘Mark!’ a voice suddenly proclaimed.

He couldn’t contain his surprise and
jumped at being recognised. 
Damn it.
  ‘Hi, Jenny,’ Mark said
coolly.  ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Jenny grinned.  ‘I was about to ask
you the same thing.  This doesn’t strike me as your cup of tea somehow.’

‘Yeah, just doing some stuff,’ Mark said
vaguely, looking around the room for a clue as to what actually went on inside
the building.  His eyes settled on a digital display.  ‘Boats and
stuff.’

Jenny nodded with a vague look of
understanding on her face.  It was evidently enough not to arouse her
suspicions.  ‘Oh, lovely.’

‘See you later,’ he said, hurrying past
her and out the door, cursing to himself for having been caught.  There
was no way he could do anything now that he had been recognised. 
Damn
that stupid bitch!

Mark reached his car,
climbed in and wound down the window.  A bead of sweat ruptured on his
forehead and under his arms, as the adrenalin raged around his body, poised for
what he had just been about to do. 
This has got to happen. 
Today. 
He thumped the steering wheel with his fist, then had an
idea.  He would go ahead of Morton and wait for him at home.  He
grinned, pulled a quantity of phlegm down the back of his throat, spat it out
of the window and sped out of The Keep car park with his tyres squealing on the
tarmac.

Morton parked outside his dad’s
semi-detached house in Hastings with apprehension.  He switched off the
ignition and just sat, staring at the house for a moment.  Although his
relationship with his father had improved a great deal since he had been told
about his biological mother’s true identity, Morton still felt pangs of anxiety
when left alone in his father’s presence.  It was at times like this that
he relied heavily on Juliette to assuage the awkwardness of the
situation.  When he looked back on the years between his adoptive mother’s
death and having his true past revealed to him, Morton realised that he had
often treated his father with an immature flippant attitude, bordering on
contempt.  It was no justification by any means, but Morton had spent much
of his life feeling like the fifth wheel of the Farrier household and that his
adoptive brother, Jeremy, was consistently treated as the miracle child who could
do no wrong.

Morton rubbed
his tired temples and breathed slowly and deeply.  It was time to grow up
and move on from the past.  In just a few weeks’ time, he would turn
forty.  Forty years old and he had no wife or children to show for
it. 
Did that matter?
  Before he had met Juliette, he had
always put his career first and the thought of being saddled with a wife and
child had once filled him with genuine horror.  And yet now, he wondered
if his only objection to marriage and, maybe one day having children, was
because he had always believed that that was the way his life was destined to
be.  Was it really all based on an outdated notion that he no longer
believed in?  He wasn’t sure.

‘See what you do
to me, Dad,’ Morton mumbled to himself.  It was true that the only time he
became so introspective and maudlin was when he returned to his father’s
memory-filled house.  This house embodied his childhood, his teenage
years, his mother’s death and the news of his being adopted.  With a flash
of clarity, he realised that this was the place that enveloped his past and
could govern his future—if he allowed it to.

A loud beeping
from his phone jolted him from his mawkishness.  It was a short text
message from Juliette, giving him Susan Catt’s mobile number.  Morton looked
at the number, deliberating about whether to call or text.  After such a
long heavy day and with what he was about to potentially face, he didn’t feel
as though he had the energy for a phone call.  He typed out a quick text
to her, suggesting that they meet somewhere in the next few days.  He
clicked ‘send’, pocketed the phone, then looked up at the house again. 
His father was waving at him with a huge frown dominating his face, as he
looked left and right to see if Morton had been spotted sitting in his car
staring at the house.  Morton smiled, took a deep breath and climbed from
his car.

‘Hi, Dad,’
Morton said cheerfully, as the front door opened.

‘What the devil
are you doing out there?’ his dad barked.  ‘You looked daft as a brush,
looking up at the house without getting out.  I hope Dave and Sandra
aren’t in.’

‘Sorry, just
thinking,’ Morton said as he stepped inside the house.

‘Dave’s running
the Neighbourhood Watch now that Geoff’s passed on, so I expect you’ve been
clocked.’

‘Oh dear,’
Morton said sarcastically, then quickly reprimanded himself for his tone.

‘Do you want a
cup of tea?’ his father asked when they reached the lounge.

‘Coffee,
please,’ Morton answered.

‘You don’t have
sugar, do you?’

‘No,’ he said,
biting his tongue. 
Surely his own father should know after thirty-nine
years that he didn’t take sugar?

‘Go into the
lounge and I’ll bring it through.’

Morton sat in
the quiet room, deliberately choosing the armchair by the window rather than
the sofa which faced the awful family portrait hanging above the fireplace of
him, Jeremy and their mum and dad.  Not only did he hate the way that he
looked in the portrait, but it always reminded him of his mum’s death, as it
was the last picture that existed of all of them together before she
died.  Having chosen the seat so as not to have to look at the portrait,
he found himself craning his neck to see it properly.  He looked his
mother in the eyes and allowed happy memories to return.  He smiled at her
as his eyes filled with tears.  ‘I miss you, Mum,’ he whispered.

‘Here we are,’
his father’s voice boomed as he entered the room carrying a tray.  ‘Only
got chocolate bourbons, I’m afraid.’

Morton quickly
ran his sleeve over his moist eyes.  ‘That’s fine.’  He watched as
his father’s doddery hand placed the cups and china plate of biscuits on the
coffee table between them.  After suffering from severe heart trouble last
year, his father had, albeit very reluctantly, had a change of lifestyle. 
He had joined the local gym and cut back on his cooked breakfasts and he now
looked much better for it.  ‘You’re looking well.’

His father waved
his hand dismissively.  ‘It’s all that rabbit food I’m eating.  Do
you know what the dietician suggested I eat once a fortnight? 
Millet!  Ha!’ he said with a laugh.  ‘Does she think I’m a budgie or
something?’  He laughed again.  ‘I ask you.’

‘It’s obviously
working, though,’ Morton said, taking a bourbon.  He observed his father
and waited for the inevitable comeback along the lines of
If this is going
to make me live longer, then I’d rather not live
, but it didn’t come. 
It seemed his father’s attitude as well as his appearance had shifted. 
Maybe
broaching the subject of Aunty Margaret won’t be so painful after all,
Morton
hoped.