‘Nope, clear as anything: 1976,’ she had maintained, before adding, ‘Shall I burn them? Only, they’re private, are they not? And I can hardly post them down to Margaret in Cornwall now, can I?’
‘No, you will bloody well not burn them!’ Morton had ranted down the phone. ‘They’re family documents—my family documents. Don’t touch them!’
‘Okay,’ she had answered feebly. He knew that his response had been far too harsh, but the idea that on a whim this woman would toss such valuable items on the fire had left him feeling quite sick. Then, yesterday, as promised, she had hand-delivered them and they now lay, still unopened, on his study desk. He was desperate, absolutely desperate to open them and devour every word of the contents, yet somehow, he just couldn’t. Madge had asked him what he was going to do with them, revealing her horror that he might actually open them.
And so, the letters continued to taunt him. They plagued the entirety of the journey to Barbara’s house this morning, the same questions looping over and over in his mind. Why would his biological father suddenly have started writing to his biological mother two years after he had last seen her? Had his Aunty Margaret lied to him when she had said that she had heard nothing more from him since their tryst in January 1974 that had left her pregnant at the age of sixteen? Obviously if they were unopened, his Aunty Margaret had never received them. They had been intercepted. By whom? Her father? Why? What did they say? And why had he chosen to keep them rather than destroy them? And did Morton really have a right to look at them? Really?
He opened the front door of his house on Mermaid Street in Rye, East Sussex, set his bag down and headed into the kitchen. Judging by the low thud of some dreadful dance music coming from the television, his fiancée, Juliette was in the lounge. He swallowed down some migraine tablets with a glass of water, but now needed something stronger—either alcohol or caffeine.
‘Coffee or wine?’ Morton shouted, selecting a bottle of red from the rack.
A curious gasp rose from the lounge.
‘Put down the bottle and nobody will get hurt,’ a voice proclaimed at the kitchen door.
Morton looked up with a grin. It was Juliette’s best friend. ‘Hi, Lucy.’
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
Morton was perplexed. He turned around and, with mock incredulity, checked that he had entered the correct house. He had. To his knowledge, there was no reason for him not to be there. ‘I live here.’
‘But you’re not supposed to be here—not now!’
And then broken fragments of conversation pierced through his migraine and into his mind, like vague shapeless clouds. He was banned from coming home until a certain time. When? Why? He couldn’t remember. Something to do with Juliette’s friends coming over.
‘Dresses!’ Lucy announced, sensing his obvious bewilderment.
‘Oh.’ The pieces of conversation miraculously fused. Juliette and her bridesmaids were having last-minute adjustments to their dresses before the wedding in three weeks’ time—making some kind of a girly afternoon of it. And he wasn’t supposed to be here. ‘Am I allowed to go up to my study?’ he asked with a grimace.
Lucy didn’t look happy. ‘No. Out. Now.’
Morton huffed, put down the bottle of wine, collected his bag and scampered back outside. He heard Lucy lock the door behind him. Great. Banished from his own house.
Somewhat aimlessly, he headed up Mermaid Street, the option of wine or coffee still undecided. As he approached the Mermaid Inn, the balance of scales began to tip favourably towards the former. But then he thought of the research that he was holding—now would be a good time to start work. A preoccupied mind, migraine, wine and a new genealogical case were not the best of combinations. The scales tipped back again and the coffee won.
He entered Edith’s House on the High Street and was greeted with a pleasant smile from the familiar young waitress. ‘Table for one? Large latte?’
He nodded, slightly stunned. When had he suddenly become a regular? He followed her to a table—his usual, he realised with horror. Juliette was right, he did drink far too much coffee. Maybe next time he would surprise the waitress by ordering a herbal tea. Then again, maybe not.
Morton sat down, rubbed his temples and tried to push back thinking about the letters and his own family history. He opened Barbara’s yellow folder and began to read. She had organised the file in the chronological order of her adoption journey, each piece of paper sitting neatly in its own plastic sleeve.
The first page was the pitiful letter from Mansion House Certificate Centre that had sent the portentous jolt between Barbara’s past and her future. Unfortunately, no trace of your birth entry can be found…I regret that I can be of no further assistance… Then came several letters and emails between Barbara and various support agencies and charities, culminating in a summarised typed document of the circumstances surrounding her birth.
Birth Mother
Your birth mother is Elsie Finch (née Danby) and, at the time that she was involved with the social worker, her address was given as Bramley Cottage, Nutley, East Sussex. She was 21 years old. Elsie’s religion is noted as Church of England. Elsie was married to Lawrence Finch, however, he had been missing at Dunkirk since 3rd June 1940. Elsie’s parents were George and Christina Danby and they lived at Eldon Road, Eastbourne, East Sussex.
Birth Father
Your birth father is named in the records as William Smith (deceased) and at the time that he knew Elsie he was 19 years old. William’s religion is noted as Church of England and his occupation was as a pilot. The records further state that William and Elsie had met at a dance in Hawkinge, Kent.
Circumstances of your birth
You were born at Cliff House, Capel-le-Ferne, Kent on 10th May 1941. You weighed 7lbs and you were bottle-fed from birth. You had no medical issues. Your birth name was Christina Finch.
Early Life History and Circumstances of your adoption
On 19th May 1941 your birth mother signed the adoption certificate, stating that she had read and understood the memorandum headed ‘Adoption of Children.’ This was witnessed by her mother-in-law and sister-in-law. You went to live with your parents on 9th July 1941.
Morton finished reading the sheet, as if seeing the information for the first time, but, when he picked up his notepad to jot down the first steps that he would take, he saw that they were already there in his own handwriting. William Smith. Pilot records. Cliff House. He really hadn’t been paying attention earlier. What other crucial information had he missed?
Next in the file was a copy of the original adoption certificate. To be furnished to a Registered Adoption Society by every Parent or Guardian who proposes to place a child at the disposition of the Society, he read. Disposition of the Society—it sounded so cold and matter-of-fact. Re Barbara Finch. To The Secretary, Church of England Waifs & Strays Society, Emergency Office, St Michael’s, Joel Street, Pinner. I hereby certify that I received from you a memorandum headed ‘Adoption of Children (Regulation) Act 1939’ from which I have detached this form of acknowledgement; and that I have read the memorandum and understand it. Below the declaration were the signatures of Elsie Finch and her mother-in-law, Agnes Finch. And that was it, the piece of paper that had signed Barbara over to the ‘disposition of the Society.’
The waitress returned with his latte. He thanked her and continued reading. Next came a copy of Barbara’s original birth certificate, the like of which he had never seen before. The error that Elsie had made in registering the birth was glaringly obvious: the father was recorded as Lawrence Finch and his occupation as private 6404310 in the Royal Sussex Regiment. In the margin, an amendment had been added. In entry no.223 Col. 4 omit “Lawrence Finch,” Col.6 omit “Private 6404310 in the Royal Sussex Regiment.” Corrected on 20th May 1941 by me, T. Robinson Deputy Superintendent Registrar, on production of a Statutory Declaration made by Elsie Finch and Agnes Finch (mother-in-law).
Morton sipped his dri
nk and continued through Barbara’s adoption journey. The file, having dealt with all the records appertaining to her birth, moved into a distinctly new phase: that of tracing her birth family. It was the exact phase that Morton was now in with his own father. How long until he was able to look back over his journey and fill a folder like this one with documents?
Barbara had used The Children’s Society to trace her family. Morton read the letter from their Family Tracing Service, accepting Barbara’s payment of £150 with the promise of a response within four weeks. The answer had come with two enclosures: Elsie Danby’s birth and marriage certificate. Elsie Danby had been born on the 7th August 1919 to Christina Neugebauer and George Danby, a machinist, in the town of Eastbourne, East Sussex.
The file ended with two photographs: one, captioned Me at 5 months, was of a little girl in a knitted white hat and shawl, the other was a black-and-white close up of a smartly dressed man and woman standing outside what looked like a church. Underneath was written The marriage of Elsie Danby and Lawrence Finch, 1939, Nutley. Morton conducted a quick analysis on the photograph, his initial assessment confirming that it had been taken outside of St James the Less church in Nutley. But the more that he studied the minutiae of the image—the building, the clothing, the trees in the background—the more that he felt that something wasn’t quite right. It took a few minutes to find that the root of his disquietude was the melancholia etched on the faces of the bride and groom. Perhaps it had been caused by the looming clouds of war, but something told him that their smiles were not genuine.
Morton studied the picture for some time, then shut the folder and drank his drink, musing once again on the possible contents of his own adoption file. Could there be anything contained within it that he didn’t already know?
He finished his latte and returned to his laptop, his migraine thankfully lifting. The very first step in his genealogical cases was usually to run a simple Google search on the person or family that he was researching; sometimes a mass of information could be found, other times, nothing. He patiently waded through various combinations of names, places and time frames. His discovery that Hawkinge had an operating aerodrome at the time when Elsie had met William yielded no obvious online connections to the pair. But he was facing an uphill battle with William’s surname. Smith. It was one of his unwritten rules to never take on a genealogical case involving anyone with a common surname. Just running a search for William’s potential birth in the year 1921 alone resulted in 290 results. Madness.
Morton’s phone beeped loudly from his pocket. It was a text message from Juliette. You may return. The wine is waiting. Xx
He smiled and shut his laptop. His searches so far had yielded nothing on William Smith or Elsie Finch. It seemed that aside from bringing an unwanted child into the world, their wartime had left little impact on history.
Chapter Five
It was gone ten in the morning and Morton and Juliette were still in their pyjamas, eating breakfast at the kitchen table. The smell of fresh coffee and hot toast lingered in the air around them. On the table, between them, were the three letters addressed to Margaret Farrier.
‘Of course you’ve got to open them,’ Juliette said, pulling a face that suggested any alternative was wholly ridiculous.
‘It’s not as simple as that, though,’ Morton answered. He wished it were. If the letters had belonged to another family, or could have at least been considered remotely historic, the decision would have been an easier one. ‘They were private letters between two people—at least one of whom is still alive. It’s the difference between reading your mum’s diary and Anne Frank’s.’
Juliette shot an incredulous look at him.
‘Maybe that’s not the best analogy, but do you see my point?’
Juliette shook her head, rushing to finish her mouthful. ‘Not really, no. If it helps you to find your father, then you have to do it. Besides, if you do open them, then you can decide what to do with them—maybe even give them to Aunty Margaret.’
‘That’s the policewoman in you talking, though,’ Morton goaded. ‘It’s evidence. Would you have opened them in your days as a librarian? Or if they were between your mum and dad?’
Despite his light provocation, she thought seriously for a moment. ‘Given the whole picture, knowing what you know and what you need to know—yes, I definitely would.’
Morton picked up the letters, turning them over, willing them to reveal their secrets. Then he put them down, consciously trying to cease thinking about them. He needed to change the topic of conversation. ‘So, who’s cancelled on you today, then?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’ve got a day off and you’re not doing any wedding planning. Who cancelled?’
Juliette tossed back her bed-dishevelled hair. ‘I don’t do wedding stuff every day, you know, Morton,’ she said giggling, before adding, ‘But I should have been meeting the photographer: he’s had to rearrange—some family emergency.’
‘There you go,’ he laughed. ‘Fancy a research trip with me to Capel-le-Ferne?’
‘Where’s that? France?’
‘According to Google, it’s somewhere near Folkestone.’
‘That could still be France,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Okay, if I must.’
Morton grinned and kissed her on the cheek.
Among the misshapen fields of crops and livestock that rose above the white cliffs between Dover and Folkestone was the windswept village of Capel-le-Ferne. The population of just over two thousand lived in an almost neat triangle of streets, many of the properties coming with a near-perfect view of the mirrored French coast.
Juliette climbed from the car and joined Morton on the pavement of a quiet residential street. She pulled tight her cardigan, shivering at the wind sliding up from the English Channel. ‘Where first, tour guide?’
‘Cliff House,’ he replied, leading the way along the busier main coastal road.
‘It looks like we’re leaving the village, though,’ Juliette said, threading her arm through his as they walked.
‘By the looks of it, it’s the last house,’ Morton answered, zooming into the map on his phone for closer inspection.
‘Or the first, if you’re coming from the other direction,’ Juliette pointed out.
It took a few minutes, and then they turned off the main road onto a thin track which climbed steeply. They strolled beside low bramble-woven hedges of hawthorn until they reached a tall white electric gate which was being held ajar by a rock.
‘Impressive,’ Juliette said at the view that had opened up to their left: a stunning vista of open countryside and rolling hills with Dover Castle perched on the distant horizon. The only sign of modern life was the busy M20 dual carriageway that carved its way through the landscape.
Morton turned to the right and saw the property. Cliff House: a huge, whitewashed building with all the characteristics of a box, perched just a few feet from the cliff’s edge; a hell of a place to have been born in the first years of war. There was something different about the building, it was so very unlike the rows of humble chalet bungalows that dominated the rest of the village, as if being the highest and closest to France had conferred onto it a boastful ostentatiousness.
‘Spooky,’ Juliette murmured, as she too turned to face the house. ‘Is that it? Where your woman was born?’
‘Yes,’ Morton answered, the gentle tightening of her arm through his revealing that she too felt the cold emptiness that emanated from the house. ‘I’m just going to get a couple of shots.’ He pulled out his Nikon camera and began to attach a long zoom lens.
‘Talking of taking shots—I’m going to phone the wedding photographer and see when we can meet,’ Juliette said, taking out her mobile and turning back to face the view towards Dover.
Morton took a series of photographs of the property, but even with the zoom lens he was dissatisfied. Through the viewfinder, he scanned the property and concluded that it loo
ked empty. With Juliette in full conversation, Morton began to wander up the concrete drive, pausing sporadically to take further pictures. He stopped as he reached two globe-topped stone pillars which defined the opening of a square gravel parking area adjacent to the house. Photographing the upstairs rooms, he lowered his view to the front porch. Someone was standing there watching him. An old lady.
He smiled wanly as he lowered his camera. She was too far away for him to explain anything without shouting, but she was close enough for him to see that she was not happy. Now what? Should he continue into the car park and explain himself? Or simply walk away? A strange man taking photographs could terrify an elderly woman. He decided to continue towards the house and stepped into the parking area with a genteel wave to the old woman.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you?’
Now that there was only a short flight of stone steps between them, Morton was able to fully take her in.
She was an unkempt, shrivelled woman—at least in her nineties, Morton guessed—in a drab knitted jumper and chocolate brown skirt. Her drawn, haggard face somehow fitted perfectly with that inhospitable house behind her. The extent of her anger was revealed in her cold hard eyes.
He needed to speak. And quickly. ‘Hello, so sorry to trouble you,’ Morton began. ‘I’m just doing some genealogical research into someone who was born here during the war…’
The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4) Page 4