Read Online Hiding the Past by Nathan Dylan Goodwin - Free Book Online
Authors: Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Ads: Link
really could be a bastard sometimes.
Now that he was
awake, and with Juliette already at work, he might as well get on with
something constructive. He poured himself a strong coffee and headed to
the confines of his study. He switched on the radio and immersed himself
into the Coldrick Case . Enclosed by sheets of scribbled notes,
Morton weighed his possible next options. Given James Coldrick’s
confinement in St George’s Children’s Home in 1944, it seemed logical that he
was born in the vicinity of Sedlescombe. When he had arrived there and
under what circumstances, Morton did not know, but the home and the village had
played a significant part in the formative years of his life. Morton
fired up Juliette’s laptop and started with a simple Google search of
Sedlescombe, following a plethora of links of varying usefulness and quality
about the history of the village. The parish council had done an
excellent PR job on www.sedlescombe.org.uk, generally promoting village life.
A history section on the website provided a potted narrative from the Stone Age
until more recent times. According to the website, St George’s Children’s
Home was built in 1922 by the firm, Dengates, when the local workhouse was
demolished. Past research had taught him that life for anyone in a
workhouse, especially children, was gruelling, severe and bleak. However,
given his findings at East Sussex Archives, Morton wondered if conditions were
any better for the poor children at St George's.
After an hour’s research, the heat was
getting unbearable. Morton stripped down to what had once been his best
Calvin Klein boxers, but which were now stretched and faded beyond all
recognition. It was time for some new ones, but Juliette didn’t approve
of spending twenty quid on something nobody except her would ever see.
‘At least, they’d better not,’ she’d once warned . He remembered
the way that his mother used to carefully iron the household’s clothing every
Monday night without fail, including the underwear. She even ironed
tea-towels and pillow cases. It was her generation. ‘A woman’s work
is never done,’ he remembered her saying on a daily basis. He wondered
what she’d make of his relationship with Juliette, who shared none of his
mother’s domesticity: you’d never catch Juliette ironing anything that wasn’t
absolutely compulsory (such as her pristine work uniform). Doubtless his
mother’s religious background would have caused her to frown on their living
together but he was certain that she would have thawed eventually. Maybe
things wouldn’t now be so strained between him and his father if she were still
alive. It was incredible that his mother had missed out on more of his
life than she’d been there for. He was sixteen when she died, still
navigating his way through puberty, flailing around discovering his own
identity. To all intents and purposes, she never really knew Morton at
all. He didn’t like to think of her too often because no matter how happy
the memory he was recalling, the story always ended the same: in her death.
Morton tried to
ignore the latest news bulletin on the radio: more British soldiers had been
killed in Afghanistan. He held his finger to the off-switch, wanting to
avoid the intimate biographical details of the deceased men but he couldn’t
quite bring himself to do it. Two British soldiers serving with the
First Battalion Grenadier Guards have been killed after the vehicle in which
they were travelling came under fire, the Ministry of Defence has
confirmed. Corporal Brian Scott and Corporal Lance Adams, both nineteen,
died after the vehicle they were travelling in… He switched it
off. Jeremy was going to be deployed there any day now. Deployed ,
it all sounded so organised and meticulously planned - not quite the reality that
Morton had witnessed in the media. War for war’s sake , he thought.
The idea of
Jeremy out
Now that he was
awake, and with Juliette already at work, he might as well get on with
something constructive. He poured himself a strong coffee and headed to
the confines of his study. He switched on the radio and immersed himself
into the Coldrick Case . Enclosed by sheets of scribbled notes,
Morton weighed his possible next options. Given James Coldrick’s
confinement in St George’s Children’s Home in 1944, it seemed logical that he
was born in the vicinity of Sedlescombe. When he had arrived there and
under what circumstances, Morton did not know, but the home and the village had
played a significant part in the formative years of his life. Morton
fired up Juliette’s laptop and started with a simple Google search of
Sedlescombe, following a plethora of links of varying usefulness and quality
about the history of the village. The parish council had done an
excellent PR job on www.sedlescombe.org.uk, generally promoting village life.
A history section on the website provided a potted narrative from the Stone Age
until more recent times. According to the website, St George’s Children’s
Home was built in 1922 by the firm, Dengates, when the local workhouse was
demolished. Past research had taught him that life for anyone in a
workhouse, especially children, was gruelling, severe and bleak. However,
given his findings at East Sussex Archives, Morton wondered if conditions were
any better for the poor children at St George's.
After an hour’s research, the heat was
getting unbearable. Morton stripped down to what had once been his best
Calvin Klein boxers, but which were now stretched and faded beyond all
recognition. It was time for some new ones, but Juliette didn’t approve
of spending twenty quid on something nobody except her would ever see.
‘At least, they’d better not,’ she’d once warned . He remembered
the way that his mother used to carefully iron the household’s clothing every
Monday night without fail, including the underwear. She even ironed
tea-towels and pillow cases. It was her generation. ‘A woman’s work
is never done,’ he remembered her saying on a daily basis. He wondered
what she’d make of his relationship with Juliette, who shared none of his
mother’s domesticity: you’d never catch Juliette ironing anything that wasn’t
absolutely compulsory (such as her pristine work uniform). Doubtless his
mother’s religious background would have caused her to frown on their living
together but he was certain that she would have thawed eventually. Maybe
things wouldn’t now be so strained between him and his father if she were still
alive. It was incredible that his mother had missed out on more of his
life than she’d been there for. He was sixteen when she died, still
navigating his way through puberty, flailing around discovering his own
identity. To all intents and purposes, she never really knew Morton at
all. He didn’t like to think of her too often because no matter how happy
the memory he was recalling, the story always ended the same: in her death.
Morton tried to
ignore the latest news bulletin on the radio: more British soldiers had been
killed in Afghanistan. He held his finger to the off-switch, wanting to
avoid the intimate biographical details of the deceased men but he couldn’t
quite bring himself to do it. Two British soldiers serving with the
First Battalion Grenadier Guards have been killed after the vehicle in which
they were travelling came under fire, the Ministry of Defence has
confirmed. Corporal Brian Scott and Corporal Lance Adams, both nineteen,
died after the vehicle they were travelling in… He switched it
off. Jeremy was going to be deployed there any day now. Deployed ,
it all sounded so organised and meticulously planned - not quite the reality that
Morton had witnessed in the media. War for war’s sake , he thought.
The idea of
Jeremy out
Similar Books
