‘Spectacular at sunrise and sunset,’ Margaret yelled.
‘I can imagine,’ Morton replied. He had to bring Juliette here—ideally in better weather.
‘Ready to continue?’ Margaret asked. ‘This coastal path runs around the entire Lizard Peninsular.’
‘Ready when you are.’
They continued along the narrow path in silence, each of them engrossed in their own thoughts. They crossed a stile and stepped down into a wide grassy field. Margaret slowed her pace so that Morton drew level with her, then she threaded her arm through his.
Morton smiled. This is it.
‘So, your dad finally told you that I’m your biological mother, then?’ she ventured. There was an unusual seriousness to her tone and she placed a stress on the word biological.
‘Yeah, last year when he was in hospital at death’s door. He didn’t want to tell me, I practically had—’
‘You don’t have to apologise or justify it, Morton,’ she interrupted, ‘I would have wanted to know if I’d been you. Crikey, I’m surprised you didn’t want to find out sooner.’
‘Well, I did—he just wouldn’t tell me,’ Morton said with a wry smile.
‘That’s my brother for you. It’s silly really; I always knew the truth would out in the end. When I was a girl, your mum and dad promised me that you’d never be told and at the time, that was the way I wanted it. Then your mum passed away and your dad told you that you were adopted—I was livid with him. We didn’t actually speak for quite a while. I just thought he was teasing you by only telling you the half of it. At that moment, though, I knew you’d eventually find out everything. I even prepared myself for what I would say to you, if he had died last year when he had all that heart trouble.’
‘And what was that?’ Morton asked, intrigued to know how she would have handled the situation had the ball been in her court.
Margaret took a deep breath. ‘I was going to sit you down and just tell it to you straight, but that nothing had changed. Your mum was still your mum and I’m still your old Aunty Margaret. You must know in your line of work that it takes more than a set of forty-six chromosomes to turn a baby into a man. I know you’ve had your differences with your dad, but he and your mum did a fantastic job raising you.’
‘I know,’ Morton agreed. As difficult as parts of his life had been, he did know that; they had been good parents to him. It just was not, and could not be the same as if they had been his biological mother and father.
Margaret exhaled noisily. ‘As hard as it was for me to give you up, I couldn’t have given you the life they gave you. I know the way society viewed such things had moved on a bit by then, but it still wasn’t the done thing for a sixteen-year-old girl to raise a baby—with or without the father.’
Morton thought of his biological father and instantly felt sickened, and yet he couldn’t stop his mind from wondering about the man. What did he look like? Where did he come from? Did he have any qualities that made him a human being? Of course, they were questions that he might have to take to the grave, never knowing the answers.
The pair walked, arm in arm, through the field, the only sounds being the incessant wind and rain rustling and creaking through the hedgerows.
‘Is the fact that you live down here, so far away from the rest of the family, anything to do with me?’ Morton asked.
‘At the beginning, yes. I won’t lie—I wanted a fresh start, to be away from the family and reminders of the past. And to escape my dad—he never forgave me for getting pregnant.’
‘But it wasn’t your fault,’ Morton responded.
Margaret shrugged. ‘He was a Victorian,’ she answered flatly.
Morton glanced sideways. ‘He was born in 1914, though.’
‘His attitudes stemmed from fifty years before that. That’s probably not very fair—he just struggled raising two children by himself after my mum died.’
‘That must have been difficult for everyone,’ Morton said, only having a vague notion that his grandmother had died soon after giving birth to Margaret. His grandfather’s apparent aloofness went some way to explaining his own father’s distance towards his children.
‘It wasn’t easy, let’s just say that. Anyway, to answer your question fully, I did want to escape the past and so came down to Cornwall as a teenager and found a life here. Met Jim, married him, had the girls and here I shall be buried.’
‘Fair enough,’ Morton said.
‘I often wonder if things might have been different if my mum had been alive when I was pregnant.’
A long pause followed, as they both considered the different paths their lives might have taken had Margaret’s mother survived childbirth.
It was Morton who finally broke the silence. ‘Could you tell me about my birth?’
Margaret smiled and glanced out to sea. She took her time to answer. ‘As soon as I began to show, I was parcelled off from our house in Folkestone to my granny’s house—you know, Nellie—Charles’s wife. She was in her eighties by then but still in good health. She had a lovely cottage outside Canterbury and I stayed there with her for several weeks. Funnily enough, she was the one who taught me how to bake. Wonderful cook she was, too. If I could get my fruitcake or wholemeal bread half as good as hers, I’d be happy. She taught me about birds, animals and plants—the garden here looks a lot like her garden did back then. I loved it there. The best thing, though, was how she treated me. She really brought me out of myself. We didn’t spend much time discussing the baby and she’d talk about everything as ‘before the event’ or ‘after the event’. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t being judgemental or anything. She was a fine woman, was Granny.’
‘Did she ever talk about Charles?’ Morton asked, aware that he was allowing the conversation to stray slightly off-topic.
Margaret shook her head. ‘Not that I can recall. I suppose it was so long ago, wasn’t it? He’d been dead what…well, it was exactly sixty years. Even her second husband, Len had died by then.’
‘So then what happened?’
‘Then the event happened. Granny called for the village midwife, Mrs Blake, who turned up on an old three-wheeled bicycle and helped me to deliver upstairs in my bedroom. The event was over, Mrs Blake left and Granny took the baby and put it—sorry, you, away into another room and called your father. A few hours later he and your mum arrived to collect you.’
‘That must have been hard for you,’ Morton said, almost inaudible against the noise of the wind.
‘Yes, it was. It really was. But there I was being told by everyone that it would be in your best interests to be looked after by Peter and Maureen.’ She paused. ‘It was only when I had my own children that I realised how right they were—I was in no position to give you a life. Fortunately life gave me another chance with Jess and Danielle.’
He didn’t know why, but her last sentence cut right through him, like a cold knife. He had learnt and understood so much, and yet the inescapable truth was that she had given him up then gone on to have two further children, whom she had kept, nurtured and cherished.
Margaret sensed his unease. ‘Sorry, that can’t have been a very nice thing to hear. I didn’t mean it how it sounded.’
‘It’s fine. Why shouldn't you have gone on to have children with Uncle Jim?’ Morton said. He needed to move the conversation on. ‘So how long did you stay on with Nellie after the birth?’
‘A good few weeks. I think she needed to see that I was totally over the birth—no baby blues or that I wasn’t going to do anything silly. I remember, she had a real thing for me telling her my feelings. She always wanted to know what was in my head.’
‘And did you get over the birth okay?’ Morton asked. ‘It can’t have been easy for a sixteen-year-old—especially given the circumstances of how it happened.’ Morton shot a glance at Margaret to see how his comment—obliquely touching at the sensitive subject of his conception—had been received. From her reaction—face flushed and clearly embarrass
ed—he had skated too close.
‘It was fine,’ she stammered, turning her head away from him.
He had pushed too far.
Margaret removed her arm from his and began fishing in her pockets, mumbling something incoherently. ‘Polos,’ she finally said, pulling out a packet. ‘Would you like one? I always enjoy them on a walk like this,’ she said cheerfully.
Morton reached out for one and thanked her. He knew that was it; any other questions, fears or worries surrounding his birth and adoption would have to wait—possibly indefinitely, for an answer. His Aunty Margaret, just like his father, had a knack of switching off a conversation like a light.
Morton took one of the multitude of free parking spaces available on Helston high street. The town—the nearest to Cadgwith—was, like the rest of Cornwall out of season, eerily quiet. Strings of lights and colourful Christmas decorations neatly laced up opposing shops along the length of the road. The wind had continued to batter the peninsula; the ominous dark clouds above looked like the current break in the rain was just going to be a short pause.
‘So, how do you feel now?’ Juliette asked, as she clambered out of the Mini. Their entire conversation on the drive here had been dominated by Morton recounting his morning walk with Margaret.
‘I don’t know really,’ he replied, taking her hand in his. ‘It’s weird. On the one hand, it addresses gaps that my brain has questioned over the years, but on the other, it felt like she was talking about someone else. That baby was me…and yet it didn’t feel like that. She’s my mother…but not. Like I said, it’s weird.’
Juliette nodded and squeezed his hand. ‘I get it. Sort of. Do you think there’s more to be said?’
Morton considered the question. ‘It’s hard to know. I feel like she’s holding back on something, but owing to the way it all happened to her, I feel I can’t really probe too deeply.’
‘Well, I think that what you’re going to have to do is to let your mind relax and when questions pop into your head, sort them out into ones you can actually ask her—like things that went on with her granny—ones that she’d be happy to answer and ones that you just can’t ask at the moment. Maybe one day the time will come when she can talk about it.’
Morton nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he said quietly. ‘Shall we go for a pasty lunch somewhere?’
Juliette laughed. ‘You really are a Farrier, Morton.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, the way you can cut from a serious topic straight to the banal. From adoption to pasty in one fell swoop.’
Morton smiled and led them into a cosy-looking café with fake snow sprayed all over the steamed-up windows. The warmth of the place hit them instantly and they both realised then how cold they had been on their short stroll from the car.
‘Table for two?’ a young lad asked, attempting efficiency by speaking to them whilst twirling to grab two menus. He failed miserably and dropped them to the floor.
‘Yes, please,’ Juliette answered, trying to stifle a snigger.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, flushing red. ‘There you go. Follow me.’
They followed him over to a table in the corner of the room.
‘Here we are,’ the waiter said, proudly indicating a small table beside an over-dressed Christmas tree, crowned by a garish, lopsided fairy.
‘What drinks can I get you?’ he asked, producing a scrawny notepad and pen.
‘Latte for me, please,’ Morton said.
‘Same for me, please,’ Juliette added.
‘Lovely,’ the waiter mumbled, darting off.
‘Aren’t there laws about under-age children working in cafés?’ Morton whispered across the table.
‘Bless him,’ she said with a smile, as she skimmed the laminated menu. ‘I think I just fancy a pasty. What about you?’
‘Yeah, traditional Cornish pasty will be lovely.’
The waiter returned with a tray precariously balanced on one hand, fingertips splayed underneath. As he lowered the tray to the table, it slipped, sending a slop of frothy coffee over the edge. ‘Oops, sorry,’ he apologised.
Morton was about to complain, but, when he looked up at his young innocent face something in him softened. He could only have been fifteen or sixteen. A hundred years ago, Morton thought, you would have been exactly the sort to have answered Kitchener’s call and have been sent off, gun in hand, to fight a war you knew nothing about and from which you would likely never have retuned. ‘It’s fine, don’t worry,’ Morton reassured him. He ordered the food and watched the boy scuttle off to the kitchens.
‘He’s a bit incompetent,’ Juliette remarked.
‘Yeah, but he’s young. Leave him alone. I’ll still tip him at the end.’
‘What’s go into you, being so generous? The season of good will?’
‘Just got me thinking about my great grandfather and all the other lads going off to war not much older than him.’
Juliette swept her hair back. ‘Listen to you, getting all sentimental now you’re finally researching your own family tree! I take it by this you’re feeling more of a Farrier now?’
Morton nodded, as an excited feeling surged through him at the thought of discovering his own ancestral heritage, maybe even making contact with new living relatives.
‘What have you actually found out about this Charles Farrier chap, then? Did I hear you say he was killed in the First World War?’
‘Yeah, December 1914,’ Morton answered, before beginning to relay the highlights of his discoveries, only stopping to accept the delivery of two large Cornish pasties.
‘See, you’ve got a family now,’ Juliette said once he had finished his recount.
Morton nodded his agreement and, when he had finished his mouthful of pasty, said, ‘I’d like to do a bit more research while we’re down here, so that I can show Aunty Margaret. If that’s okay with you?’
‘You can do more tonight, can’t you? I’m happy watching TV and relaxing.’
Morton leant over and kissed her on the lips. ‘I love you.’
‘Love you too. Weirdo.’
A thick church pillar candle at the centre of the dining table and the low flicker from the Christmas tree lights sent obscure black shadows around the room. The final morsels of a fish pie had been consumed and the wine bottle emptied.
‘Lovely dinner, thank you, dear wife,’ Jim barked. ‘Right! Who’s coming to the Cadgwith Cove Inn, then?’
Margaret fired an uncertain look at Morton. ‘I don’t mind. If you’d rather stay and do a bit more research into my grandad, then that’s okay, too.’
‘Let’s do that,’ Morton said.
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Margaret said with a laugh.
‘I’ll join you, Uncle Jim,’ Juliette replied, standing from the table.
‘That’s the spirit!’ Jim roared.
‘Just you watch yourself, James,’ Margaret joked. ‘Juliette—please feel free to arrest him, if he misbehaves.’
‘Will do,’ Juliette said, playing along.
Jim and Juliette pulled on their shoes and coats, then disappeared down to the pub.
‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ Morton said enthusiastically, placing his laptop on the dining table.
Margaret rubbed her hands with glee and perched down beside him. ‘What’s first?’
‘Well, I’m going to see if his regiment’s unit diaries are online. Some are, some aren’t—bit of pot luck, really. They don’t usually mention names in them, but it will be good to see what he was up to and what happened in the unit the day he died.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Margaret said avidly.
Morton opened up the National Archives website and navigated to the unit war diaries, series WO 95. He typed Royal Sussex Regiment into the search box. ‘Bingo!’ he said. ‘Second Battalion unit diaries available for the grand sum of three pounds thirty, which includes five hundred and eighty-one files covering August 1914 to April 1919! That’ll keep us busy.’
‘Crikey. What happens now?’
‘I buy them then download them,’ he responded with a smile, as he fumbled in his pockets for his credit cards.
Margaret shook her head in amazement, as Morton completed the transaction. Moments later, the four downloaded files comprising the entire Battalion’s First Word War history appeared onscreen.
‘Right, let’s start at the beginning, then.’ Morton opened the first file. The opening page, scanned in high-resolution colour, was wrapping-paper-brown with the simple typed words 2nd Battalion Royal Sussex Regiment Aug - Dec 1914. His great grandfather’s war movements could be plotted within those one hundred and seventy-two pages. Somewhere in there, among the death and destruction, was whatever had happened to end Charles Ernest Farrier’s life.
Morton scrolled down until he was greeted with the very first pages of Army Form C. 2118. The page was divided into three typed sections: Hour, Date, Place in the left-hand column, Summary of Events and Information in the centre and Remarks and references to Appendices on the right. Hand-written on the page in a purple scrawl were the initial preparations of the Battalion in Woking, England in August 1914.
‘Do you want me to read everything?’ Morton asked. ‘There’s quite a lot here.’
‘Oh yes, even if it takes all night!’
‘Okay,’ Morton began, clearing his throat. ‘Here we go, then.’
It took time for Morton to initially decipher the particular scrawl of the Battalion commander, but once he had adjusted to the peculiarities of his handwriting, he was able to read quickly through the diaries, only stopping to make his own notes or to answer queries from Margaret.
‘So, Charles took part in the First Battle of the Marne and the First Battle of the Aisne,’ Morton muttered, as much to himself as to Margaret. ‘He survived all that but didn’t survive the year, just like most of the original regular soldiers. The British Expeditionary Force was all but wiped out by the end of 1914, awaiting fresh blood. Sad. Very sad.’
‘Gosh, what an awful time for him,’ Margaret lamented once they had reached December 1914. She sighed and tried to stifle a yawn. ‘Sorry!’
The Orange Lilies Page 4
