The Orange Lilies: A Morton Farrier novella (The Forensic Genealogist series)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Frank and Jimmy strolled from the room, as quickly as their aching feet could take them.

  ‘Kitchener wasted his time putting that little pearl of wisdom in our first wartime pay-packets,’ Edward said. ‘In this new experience, you may find temptations both in wine and women!’

  ‘You must entirely resist both,’ Leonard responded with a chuckle.

  Edward unscrewed his canteen and raised it into the air. ‘Cheers, Kitchener!’ He took a swig and sighed.

  ‘Oh, Nellie,’ Charles breathed almost inaudibly, as he stared at the photo. Right now, he would do anything—anything at all—to get back home and hold her in his arms. That was all he wanted: just to hold her and stroke her face. He was worried about her, too. Edward had been sent a copy of the Daily Mail from 17th December, the main story in which was the bombardment of Scarborough, Whitby and Hartlepool. That German ships could just sail unhindered through the North Sea terrified him when Eastbourne was so close to mainland Europe. At any moment they could cross the English Channel and attack the seaside town.

  ‘Ho ho ho!’ a sudden yell came at the door.

  The men turned eagerly to see Davis from ‘B’ Company struggling to drag a full hessian sack into the bedroom. Quickly, he distributed letters and parcels among the men. ‘Enjoy!’ were his parting words.

  The four men delved into their post, desperately grateful to have heard from home the day before Christmas.

  Charles received a parcel and letter from Nellie. He carefully tore into the letter and read. My Dear Charlie, Thank you for your letter 14/12/14. I’m pleased that the items were of use—of course it is not too much trouble to send them. Little Alfie and I are doing well. He grows every day, becoming more and more like you. His smile and laughter is enough to melt the hardest of souls. We muddle along, each day much the same as the last, eagerly awaiting news from the front. Dorothy and Gwen send their regards—we are a great team, the three of us—sharing the housework and employing various ingenious methods (which I daren’t tell you about) to procure food for the table. Our greatest strength, though, is in the support we provide each other. Individually we are like fretful, jumpy lunatics, bouncing between good news and no news. I know I shouldn’t complain—what you boys are suffering is unimaginable for us left behind. This might well be the last note you receive before Christmas, so, my love, I wish you every blessing and pray we three shall be reunited again soon. My love, Nellie xx.

  Charles smiled and wiped away a pair of tears that neatly coursed down his cheeks. Setting the letter to one side, he set about opening the parcel, taking his time and savouring the anticipation of its contents. It could be entirely empty and he’d be happy in the knowledge that his wife had sent it. Inside, he found two Christmas presents wrapped in brown paper, a bundle of candles, coffee, cherry brandy, two packets of cigarettes and a jar of homemade marmalade.

  ‘Anything nice?’ Leonard asked.

  ‘Want to help me with this?’ Charles responded, holding up the cherry brandy. He could see on Leonard’s bed the summary of his post: a Christmas card containing few words. Charles shared most things with Leonard, knowing that his only contact from home was an elderly aunt who seldom wrote and never sent parcels.

  Leonard smiled. ‘With pleasure.’

  For the six men in the shared bedroom, and for the rest of the company, Christmas Eve ended with smoking, drinking, eating and playing cards.

  Charles fell asleep that night clutching Nellie’s letter in his hand, warmed by the liqueur laced with the taste of the weald’s summer orchard.

  Chapter Eleven

  19th August 1974, Westbere, Kent, England

  Nellie stood at her kitchen window, watching the abundance of birdlife drawn to her garden. Flitting, dancing and fluttering, they greedily scoffed the crumbs and scraps which she had left out for them earlier that morning. A gentle breeze drifted in through the open French doors, bringing with it the chattering happiness from the birds, mingling in the air with the quiet musical offerings from her radio.

  Nellie took a sip of her tea and wondered what the day would bring. She had wanted to stick to her usual routines, but her granddaughter’s arrival had dictated otherwise. After four days, Nellie had yet to penetrate through Margaret’s tough near-silent exterior. She sympathised with the poor girl; even today with more enlightened liberal views about the world, she was still being judged by the clinging fog of Victorian attitudes. Her son, Alfred’s, disgust at her condition was evident from the very moment that he had telephoned her, asking her to see Margaret through the latter stages of her pregnancy. ‘People are talking,’ Alfred had said rather vaguely. When Nellie had pushed, he had elaborated further: church people, neighbours, friends and his colleagues at work. It seemed to Nellie that everyone had an opinion on the poor girl. Of course, Nellie had accepted the request only too willingly. Len’s death last month had hit her hard—much harder than she would ever have envisaged—and she was certain that Alfred saw foisting Margaret on her as a solution to the double-headed problem of a grieving mother and a pregnant daughter. Although Nellie saw through his thinly veiled plan, she actually hoped that he was right, that they would become each other’s support.

  A sound behind Nellie made her turn and jump with fright. ‘Oh goodness, Margaret!’ Nellie cried. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

  Margaret, leaning casually against the worktop, shrugged.

  Nellie swallowed down her annoyance. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Margaret nodded.

  ‘Kindly look at me when I’m talking to you, Margaret,’ Nellie reproached. Her patience with Margaret’s moroseness was wearing thin.

  Margaret looked up sullenly.

  ‘Listen, my girl,’ Nellie began, ‘if you’re going to stay here for the next couple of months until the event is over, then you need to stop this sulkiness; it’s not an attractive quality in a young lady.’

  Margaret’s eyes began to glisten. She stood up and looked Nellie in the eyes. ‘I might not stay here, anyway. I might keep the baby—it’s not just Dad’s decision, you know.’

  Nellie emitted a scoffing laugh and instantly regretted it. ‘Sorry, but how are you going to cope raising a child by yourself? You’re sixteen, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I could get myself a flat somewhere and get a job,’ Margaret said without much conviction. ‘What can my brother give it that I can’t?’

  ‘Your brother and his wife have a house. He has a job and money. It’s a fantasy, Margaret—you’d never cope with a child by yourself.’

  ‘How do you know what I could cope with?’ Margaret demanded.

  Nellie paused for a moment and lowered her voice. ‘Because I’ve been there. I raised your father for four years by myself and it was awful. Truly awful.’

  Margaret ground her back teeth, as she considered what Nellie had just said. ‘But you did cope,’ she said indignantly. ‘And so could I.’

  ‘Until I got an insurance payout following Charlie’s death, do you know how I coped?’ Nellie asked. Without waiting for answer, she continued, ‘I coped by killing wild animals, by growing my own food, by begging and borrowing, by earning a pittance in a God-forsaken war factory; it is not a time I would have wished on my worst enemy.’

  Margaret suddenly broke down in noisy sobs. ‘I don’t want the baby, anyway—not without a father.’

  Nellie pulled Margaret into a long embrace. ‘It’s okay, we’ll get through this together.’

  Chapter Twelve

  25th December 2014, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England

  Morton and Juliette woke with a start. His phone, vibrating and dancing on the bedside table, was sending its shrill alarm cry into the room.

  ‘Christ, what the hell’s that on for?’ Juliette demanded. ‘Turn it off! It’s Christmas Day and you’ve probably just woken half of Cornwall with that thing.’

  In the darkness of the room, Morton pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry. Happy Christmas,’ he said, leaning over an
d kissing her.

  Juliette sighed and replied drearily. ‘Happy Christmas.’ She flaked back down into the bed and tugged the duvet over her head. ‘Night.’

  Morton stepped out of bed, pulled the duvet back and switched on the bedside lamp. ‘Time to get up! I’ve got something to show you.’

  Juliette groaned. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Get dressed,’ he instructed.

  She looked at him incredulously. ‘Really? It can’t wait for another couple of hours?’

  Morton shook his head and began pulling on his clothes.

  With a slight huff, Juliette climbed out of bed and got dressed.

  ‘You’ll need a coat, scarf and gloves,’ Morton warned once they’d crept downstairs. As soon as they were fully dressed, he looked at the time on his phone and smiled. ‘Right, follow me!’ he said brightly, opening the front door and stepping out into the chilly dawn air.

  ‘God, that’s freezing! Are we going far?’ Juliette breathed, pulling her knitted scarf up over her chin.

  ‘Nope, not far.’

  Juliette sidled up close to him and the pair walked side by side away from the house. They walked in silence until they reached the old coastguard hut not far up the hill. Morton led Juliette out to the low stone wall and put his arm around her. ‘There.’

  The pair stared out over the ocean, as still and flat as if it had been frozen. As if ascending from the very depths of the sea, a large, blood red sun sat on the horizon.

  ‘Wow!’ Juliette uttered. ‘That’s just stunning.’

  ‘It really is,’ Morton agreed. ‘Now look behind you,’ he said, turning Juliette back towards the village.

  ‘Amazing,’ she said, as she took in the spectacle of the picture-postcard scene of the whitewashed thatched cottages of Cadgwith bathed in an ethereal orange glow, each tiny window glistening in the sun. Juliette exhaled. ‘Okay, so maybe it was worth waking me up and dragging me out into the cold for this.’

  Morton smiled. ‘That wasn’t what I dragged you out here for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Juliette asked.

  Morton bent down on one knee, taking her hand in his and looked into her hazel eyes. ‘Juliette Meade, will you do the honour of marrying the strange forensic genealogist stooped before you?’

  A wide smile erupted on her face. ‘Really? Are you joking?’

  ‘Nope,’ Morton answered, fumbling around in his jeans’ pocket. ‘I’ve got a ring and everything. You might not like it—it was my grandmother’s engagement ring.’ He held the ring up for her approval.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Juliette grinned.

  ‘Great. I’m getting arthritis of the knee here; so what’s your answer?’

  ‘Yes! Absolutely, yes!’

  Morton stood up and received her warm lips to his. He had done it. He had overcome the fears that had blighted his adult life, about not being able to give his surname to another person when it didn’t truly belong to him. But it did belong to him; it was his to share and his to give away to someone else. Maybe even one day to pass on to his own descendants.

  ‘Come on, then; get this ring on me!’

  Morton removed the glove on her left hand and gently slid onto her finger the simple gold band with a single diamond.

  Juliette inspected her hand. ‘Perfect—totally perfect! And what a perfect place, too.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not bad, is it? When I planned it, I envisaged a gentle fluttering of snow falling down, but this will do.’

  Juliette smiled and kissed him again. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to become Mrs Juliette Farrier.’

  ‘Another one to add to the weird Farrier family tree,’ Morton commented.

  ‘You wait—the second we get back I’m digging out all that wedding planning stuff I got this summer at the Rye Wedding Fayre.’

  ‘Yippee!’ Morton joked.

  ‘Come on, let’s get back in and tell them the good news,’ Juliette said, tugging Morton’s hand.

  They entered Sea View to a short burst of applause from Margaret and Jim, who were standing in their dressing gowns looking dishevelled but happy. Beside them, on the dining table was a bottle of champagne and four crystal glasses.

  ‘You knew!’ Juliette said, hugging and kissing the pair.

  ‘He sort of mentioned it the other day. Told me to keep out the way when you two were bumbling about at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Let’s get this bubbly open, then,’ Jim barked, handing the bottle to Morton to open.

  The cork popped out noisily and Morton filled the four glasses.

  ‘To Morton and Juliette,’ Margaret toasted.

  The four glasses clinked in the air before being raised to four happy mouths.

  Five hours later, Morton, Juliette, Jim and Margaret were collapsed in front of the fire, having eaten a full traditional Christmas dinner and drunk two bottles of champagne. Strewn around their feet were pieces of shredded wrapping paper and neat stacks of assorted gifts. The pile of presents under the tree had dwindled to just one, which Juliette had been particularly guarded about Morton opening until the very last. She handed it over with a wry smile.

  ‘What is it?’ Morton asked, carefully taking it from her. It was thin and lightweight, about the size of a hardback book. He looked at her through narrowed eyes, wondering what it could be.

  ‘Come on, man, get on with it!’ Jim said.

  ‘Leave him alone, James,’ Margaret said playfully.

  Morton tore open the end and carefully removed a box. ‘An Ancestry DNA kit!’ he exclaimed.

  Juliette smiled. ‘You have no idea how hard it was to get that—it’s only available in the US, but I thought you’d like it. It seemed more comprehensive than the UK tests.’

  ‘That’s brilliant—thanks!’

  ‘It doesn’t just test one line, like maternal or paternal, but your whole ethnicity,’ Juliette enthused. ‘Apparently it breaks it down to geographical areas, percentages of this and that. Thought it was up your street and more… appropriate for you.’

  Morton glanced up at her with a smile, and as he did so he noticed a strange conspiratorial look pass between Margaret and Jim. When they saw him looking in their direction they both redirected their gaze, almost comically. There is definitely something wrong, Morton thought. Judging by their reaction, it was something that his taking a DNA test might reveal.

  ‘Right, I’d better get this mess cleared up,’ Margaret announced, beginning to scoop up the scattered wrapping paper. ‘Then it’ll be time for the next family history instalment.’

  ‘Or, time for the pub,’ Jim teased. ‘They’re open for a few more hours.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Juliette agreed. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Really?’ Jim asked keenly.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Jim said, jumping up and heading over to the front door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said, shaking her head. She deposited all the rubbish in the bin then sat back down in her armchair with a sigh. ‘Don’t be too long down there, you two.’

  ‘See you shortly, fiancé,’ Juliette said, planting a kiss on the top of Morton’s head.

  ‘Bye,’ he replied, before taking his usual seat at the table. ‘Don’t be too long, fiancée.’

  ‘I won’t—The Friary Christmas special’s on later.’

  ‘Great,’ Morton responded sarcastically, as Juliette and Jim headed through the door. The Friary was the last thing he wanted to see. The programme was filmed in a stately home owned by the Earl of Rothborne, who had been embroiled in Morton’s last genealogical case. The future of the show hung in the balance whilst a prominent court case was being tried at the High Court, which would decide the very future ownership of the house. Much of the evidence being used against the Earl and Countess of Rothborne had been uncovered by Morton in his quest to find the whereabouts of an Edwardian housemaid. No, Morton would definitely not be watching The Friary Christmas special.

&nb
sp; ‘Right, today’s unit diary entry, then,’ Morton said.

  ‘Before you do,’ Margaret began from her seat by the fire, ‘come over here a minute. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Okay,’ Morton said, instantly fearing the consequences of whatever it was she was about to tell him. He sat himself down in the chair opposite her and braced himself.

  ‘You don’t have to look so worried,’ Margaret said.

  ‘It’s something to do with my birth, isn’t it?’ Morton said.

  Margaret nodded solemnly. She drew in a deep breath and seemed to hold on to it for an eternity. ‘It’s something I wasn’t going to tell you. But after seeing you these last few days doing your genealogy and seeing that DNA thing from Juliette, I think now it’s something you should be told.’

  ‘Go on,’ Morton said quietly. He was trying to cancel out the panicked flurry of activity going on in his own mind, as it frantically tried to pre-empt his Aunty Margaret with whatever revelation she was about to make. But nothing in his head made any kind of sense.

  Another long pause followed until she spoke, her eyes fixed to her feet. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, but the story about your conception is somewhat inaccurate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I lied about it… I wasn’t…the story your father told you last year isn’t true: I wasn’t…attacked.’ Her eyes finally met with Morton’s.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean it was consensual.’

  ‘Why did Dad tell me what he did, then?

  ‘He didn’t know. Doesn’t know.’

  ‘Why did you lie about it?’

  ‘Shame. Morality. Other people’s attitudes—I was sixteen, remember.’

  Morton felt as though he had just been kicked hard in the stomach, as his understanding of his own past took on yet another new form. For the past year and a half, he had been struggling with the inconceivable notion that his father was a rapist, that half of his DNA stemmed from a vile criminal whom he would never meet, nor would ever want to meet. But despite that stark horrible fact, questions about his father had remained, raising their ugly heads, demanding answers. What was his name? Where did he come from? Who were his parents? Did he father other children?