Morton refocused. Margaret was silently weeping.
‘I’m sorry, Morton—I really am. I know how hard it must be to hear all this.’
He knew he should get up and comfort her, to tell her that it was okay, but he couldn’t. He was fixed to the armchair, weighted down by the impact of her confession. His real biological father was a normal man. A man out there, living somewhere. ‘Who was he?’ he asked in a small, squashed voice.
Margaret tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’ll tell you everything, Morton, but I warn you—what I know isn’t much at all.’
Morton nodded as tears welled in his own eyes.
‘His name was Jack. He was about eighteen or nineteen at the time and he was American. He was-’
‘American?’ Morton interjected, trying to absorb the pace of the information that he was receiving.
‘Yes, American.’
‘From which part?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve got something in my head that he might have mentioned Boston and a degree in archaeology or something. He was staying with his parents in the guesthouse next door to us in Folkestone. He was there for a few days and we got friendly. We would just sit outside chatting, wandered around town together—that kind of thing. Then on his last day he took me to the pictures and afterwards we sneaked into a pub, had a few drinks and…we got close. The next day he went back to America and I never heard from him again.’ She sat back and sighed. ‘He said he would write with his address, but he never did.’
‘So no further contact with him?’
Margaret shook her head vehemently. ‘Nothing.’
‘Do you know his surname?’ Morton asked softly. His father’s surname. His surname. The one he should be giving to Juliette. He thought it ironic that just a few hours ago he had fully embraced the Farrier surname because even if he had known the identity of his father, he wouldn’t have wanted to take his name. But now this…
Margaret shook her head again. ‘No, he was just Jack.’
In just a few short minutes, Morton’s whole perception of his past had shifted on its axis. For the first time in his life, he knew who his biological parents were, albeit with limited paternal knowledge. Despite the emotional depth of what he had been told, on a genealogical level, the information was scant and inadequate. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘No, sorry,’ she answered.
‘What about his appearance?’
Margaret sniffed and laughed. ‘Just take a look at a photo of you at eighteen and you’ll see what he looked like.’
Tears began to roll down Morton’s cheeks as a visual image of his father entered his head. He looked like him and shared his interest in history.
‘Listen, Morton. I know what you’re going to do next and I sincerely wish you luck with it. But please, promise me I won’t ever get to hear about it. Not anything at all.’
Morton knew to what she referred. ‘I promise.’
‘And I think the same should go for your father, too. It would be enough to give him another heart attack.’
The weight pinning Morton down had lifted; he crossed the room and hugged his Aunty Margaret. Reciprocal tears flowed, embodying a complex tangle of emotions that had spanned forty years.
The truth had, at last, been revealed.
After several seconds, it was Margaret who broke the embrace. She dabbed her eyes and said, becoming stoic, ‘Well, this certainly won’t do. I’d better get in that kitchen and get washing up.’
Morton couldn’t help but smile at witnessing that peculiar Farrier family trait once again kicking into action. The hit-and-run gene. ‘I’ll come and dry up for you.’
‘No need,’ Margaret called. ‘I’d rather you read the diary for today and did some more research. You’re going home tomorrow—we’re running out of time!’
Under normal circumstances, Morton might have persisted, but he guessed that she needed time by herself to comprehend the implications of her own confession. ‘Okay,’ he responded, switching on his laptop. Before he did anything else, and while it was still fresh in his mind, he created a new file entitled Jack. In it, he quickly typed all that he had just learnt about his biological father, which amounted to just a few short sentences. Many would have considered the limited information hopeless, but he was a forensic genealogist: he would find his father.
‘Come on, then!’ Margaret hollered from the kitchen.
‘Sorry, just got distracted.’ Opening the Battalion unit diary, Morton scrolled down to the correct entry. ‘Here goes. 25th December, Le Hamel. In spite of the fact that at one time on the evening of 24th we were ordered to proceed at 9am Xmas day to relieve the 6th Brigade near Cambrin, we escaped, for the order was cancelled at 11.30pm on 24th. Xmas day was spent in peace, the Brigade, however, being prepared to move at an hour’s notice. Princess Mary’s gifts and their Majesties’ Xmas cards were issued.’
‘So, a peaceful Christmas for Grandad Farrier, then,’ Margaret pondered from the kitchen. ‘Not quite the romantic truce in No Man’s Land that I had envisaged, but at least he wasn’t in the trenches. A near miss, though, by the sounds of it.’
‘Are you sure I can’t read the entry for the 26th already?’ Morton pleaded.
‘Very sure!’ came the reply.
It was really starting to go against his genealogical grain to sit on a document that held such importance. But, wait he would. His thoughts returned to Charles Farrier’s will. What was it that had bothered him about it? he wondered, reopening the document onscreen. He re-read it for the umpteenth time. It was a standard, simple last distribution of Charles’s effects; the content was not the cause of Morton’s unease, he realised: it was the handwriting. But what about it? Zooming into the document, he studied it carefully, following the neat cursive letter formations. He looked at Charles’s signature at the bottom of the page. It was the letter h, with a fancy flourish at the tip that he felt he had seen somewhere before. Where had he seen it? The only documents that he had seen with Charles’s handwriting on were his will and his original marriage certificate. Pulling out his phone, he opened his photographs and began to swipe through the pictures that he had taken since being here. He stopped before he reached the image of Charles’s marriage certificate; something had caught his eye. It was the postcard written by Leonard to Nellie in March 1915. His splayed fingers brought the photo up close. ‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ Morton mumbled.
‘What’s that?’ Margaret shouted.
‘Hang on,’ Morton replied, frantically tapping keys on his laptop and opening vital documents. ‘Oh my God.’
Margaret came scuttling out of the kitchen with a tea towel draped over her left shoulder. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Look at this,’ Morton said, sliding to one side so that Margaret had an unobstructed view of his laptop. He clicked on Leonard Sageman’s 1910 military attestation form and zoomed into his signature.
‘What am I looking at?’ Margaret asked, squinting at the screen.
‘Just look at his signature,’ Morton replied.
‘Right.’
‘Now look at this,’ Morton said, bringing up the copy of Charles and Nellie’s 1912 marriage certificate. He zoomed into the bottom of the page, where the bride, groom and witnesses had signed their names.
‘Yes,’ Margaret said, confusion in her voice. ‘The same signatures. What about it?’
‘Now look at this,’ Morton said, clicking on the 1919 marriage certificate of Nellie to Leonard Sageman.
‘Oh!’ Margaret yelped. ‘Grandad Len’s signature’s changed completely.’
Morton turned to face her. ‘Yes, it has. And you see the fancy letter h in Charles’s name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look at this.’ Morton brought up the photo that he had taken of the March 1915 postcard Leonard had sent to Nellie. He moved the cursor to the word fighting.
‘It’s the same fancy h!’ Margaret exclaimed. �
��But how can that be? Surely you’re not saying that they’re the same person?’
Morton shook his head. ‘No, definitely two separate people—they enlisted together in 1910, remember. One of them died on 26th December 1914 and the other was taken as a prisoner of war.’
‘Sorry, I’m totally lost.’
‘I think Len was killed on the 26th December and, for some reason, Charles took his identity and was then taken prisoner of war.’
‘Why would he do that?’ she asked incredulously. ‘To put poor Nellie through all that grief?’
Morton shrugged. ‘She must have known fairly soon after being told that Charles was dead that he wasn’t at all. Those postcards you’ve got, supposedly written by Len are clearly from Charles—she would have spotted that straight away. He hasn’t really made much effort to disguise his handwriting, has he?’
‘My goodness,’ Margaret said, sitting beside Morton. ‘What a shock! Are you really sure about all this?’
‘There’s more evidence, yet.’
‘Oh, golly—go on.’
Morton pulled up the scratched, sepia portrait of Leonard Sageman in his military uniform taken in August 1914. Beside it, he placed the physical description of Leonard on his military enlistment form.
‘Complexion, fresh. Eyes, blue. Hair, blond. It doesn’t match the photo.’
‘Now compare it to Charles’s appearance.’
‘Complexion, fresh. Eyes, brown. Hair, light brown,’ Margaret read. ‘It’s him!’
‘Yes. That’s your grandfather, Charles Ernest Farrier. I think his name was written on the reverse of the postcard, but it was obliterated, leaving just the date.’
Margaret shook her head disbelievingly. ‘But why ever would he do that?’
‘I think there are clues in the two postcards that he sent Nellie. In the first one he mentions insurance and her getting his will. It could have been purely for financial reasons. Charles’s early life was blighted with poverty and I guess he saw a way out.’ Morton shrugged. ‘Well, it worked, didn’t it? She bought a house way away from their old life in Eastbourne where nobody would recognise them, then they remarried by licence, so no banns were called to alert anybody.’
‘My goodness,’ Margaret repeated.
‘When I first saw Leonard and Nellie’s marriage certificate, I spotted that their witnesses were married on the same day. I’ve got a feeling that Nellie and Leonard—Charles—just grabbed the nearest two people to witness the service. Two unknowns who wouldn’t question it.’
‘Golly, no wonder there are no pictures or anything belonging to Charles. That would have given the game away, wouldn’t it! But that means that their other child, Alex is actually a Farrier and not a Sageman!’ Margaret declared.
‘Yep. Just to make the Farrier tree even more complicated.’
Margaret laughed. ‘Isn’t it just.’
‘Did Alex have any children?’
‘Yes, he had three sons. I don’t know much more about what happened to them. As you know, my dad was a bit of a miserable character and once we moved to Folkestone, he didn’t see much of his half-brother—or full brother as we now know him to have been.’
‘It would be good to try and make contact with them; tell them all we’ve discovered,’ Morton said.
‘I’m not sure anyone would believe it, though! Can you find them?’
Morton nodded. ‘Shouldn’t be too tricky. There are various ways of doing it—through birth, marriage and death records, then using an electoral register search. First, though, I’d like to try a website called Lost Cousins. It’s a great website that kind of does what it says on the tin. You put your family details in and make contact with distant relatives. I’ve used it before for clients on genealogical cases but have never actually inputted my own family.’
‘Get on with it then! I’ll go and make us a coffee.’
Morton opened up a new browser and navigated to the Lost Cousins website. It felt strange but exciting to create his own account, in his own name. The first step was to add known relatives into the My Ancestors page, using a variety of censuses as a guide to ensuring a correct match with living relatives. Morton selected the 1911 English and Welsh census and, using the relevant piece and schedule number, inputted Charles Ernest Farrier’s name and age. Once added, Morton clicked search.
No matches.
Morton returned to the My Ancestors page and inputted Nellie Ellingham’s name and age. He hit the search button and waited.
1 new match found. Please check your My Cousins page.
Morton held his breath as he clicked the link. He was presented with the initials—AS, country of residence of the match—UK and connection—Nellie Ellingham. Beside the entry was a link—make connection. Morton hovered his cursor over the word, briefly considering the implications of what he was about to do, then clicked it. Onscreen appeared the words Request sent 25th December 2014. Now he just needed to sit and wait. He made up his mind when he got home to work on the Farrier family tree and add the rest of the family into the website, hopefully being able to make contact with other living relatives. One day he might even get to add his own father’s family.
‘Coffee!’ Margaret announced, noisily setting a cup on the table beside his laptop. ‘Do you know, I can’t stop thinking about Grandad Farrier and Grandad Len—it’s so bizarre. I’m itching to hear what happened on the 26th!’
‘Shall I read it now?’
‘No! Be strong!’ Margaret rebuked with a smirk. ‘Any other new developments?’
Morton smiled. ‘Well, there is someone on Lost Cousins who is descended from Nellie. Their initials are AS.’
‘Oh right, what happens now, then?’
‘Now we sit and wait for AS to log in to their emails.’
‘Oh golly.’
‘Fancy a walk after the coffee?’ Morton asked. ‘It’s been a bit of a heavy day, with one thing and another; I could do with some fresh air.’
‘You go, I think you probably need a bit of time by yourself,’ Margaret said perceptively.
Morton nodded. She was right and he had actually hoped that she would decline his invitation. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her company; it was simply that he needed just a few minutes by himself.
Outside, the bracing salty air blasted against his face as he ambled slowly along the cliff path. He passed the disused coastguard hut and his thoughts turned to this morning and to the new life ahead of him as a married man. He loved Juliette and wanted to spend his life with her. The happiness that she evoked in him and the calmness that her presence brought him could never be equalled. She seemed to know and comprehend his thoughts before he had even thought them. She understood and guided him gently through the turbid complex waters of his past. Right now, though, he felt like one of the tiny boats out on the open seas before him: released from the past with a whole world out in front of him.
Morton took a step up onto the grassy bank and drew in a long, deep breath. He stared out into the distance. Somewhere out there, probably on another continent, was his biological father. A normal real man who had no idea of his existence.
Jack. An American with some connection to Boston. A degree in archaeology. A stay in Folkestone in early 1974. That was the sum of his knowledge about his father. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. ‘Dad,’ he mouthed into the air.
He closed his eyes and felt the cold wind on his face. Wind that blew in from his father’s homeland.
For the first time in his life he felt part of a family with a past, present and a future.
Taking in another long inhalation, Morton headed back down the hill to join his fiancée for a drink in the pub.
Chapter Thirteen
25th December 1914, Le Hamel, France
Charles Farrier was standing in a long queue of noisy soldiers, which slowly snaked its way through the ground floor of the house towards the dining room. A temporary kitchen had been established there to serve the company Christmas dinner. Alone i
n his thoughts, Charles was feeling surprisingly grateful. Yesterday evening, just as the men were beginning to relax in their billets, the Battalion had been ordered to proceed at 9am on Christmas Day to relieve the 6th Brigade near Cambrin, a prospect they had all feared and which had severely dampened their evening. However, at 11.30 last night, the order had been cancelled and the men had slept well in the knowledge that their Christmas Day would be a peaceful one. The cancelled order had come with the caveat that the Battalion must be ready to move with just one hour’s notice. Last night Frank and Jimmy had returned from the red lamps, slightly inebriated, dragging with them a small fir sapling. They had also procured from somewhere a few measly strips of tinsel and a handful of over-sized baubles, which looked ridiculous on the diminutive tree. But it was better than nothing, Charles thought, as he looked at the tree standing drunkenly in the corner of the room that he was sharing with the five other men.
They had woken to a bitingly cold bedroom and had worked quickly to ignite the brazier. Following a slow breakfast of bacon and tea, the men had sat quietly on their own beds and opened their presents from home. Carefully wrapped inside brown paper, Charles had found two pairs of thick socks, several bars of chocolate, a plum pudding, some dried fruit and a new photograph of Nellie and Alfred inside a decorative leather case.
‘Here you go,’ Charles had said to Leonard, tossing a small wrapped parcel at him. ‘Happy Christmas.’
Leonard had looked surprised at being given the package.
‘From Nellie and little Alfie. Well, and me of course.’
Leonard had opened the parcel and smiled at the gifts of socks, candles, a packet of fancy biscuits and some dried fruit. ‘Thank you.’
Charles had seen in Leonard’s eyes how much the trivial gifts had meant to him; without them, he would have had nothing. His aging aunt certainly wasn’t going to send him anything.
The Orange Lilies Page 9
