Read Online Hiding the Past by Nathan Dylan Goodwin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Ads: Link
bit too funereal
for his liking.
He opened
another door that led into an air-conditioned reception area adorned with yet
more perfumed flowers. It occurred to him then that maybe these were funeral flowers. He was pleased to see a mauve-rinsed lady
single-finger-typing at a computer like a timid hen, pecking for grain.
She couldn’t possibly be the eloquent KC Fellows that he’d spoken to. She
raised a hand with ridged veins and liver spots to her temple. Morton
guessed her to be the wrong side of seventy. He might have mistaken her
for a resident but for her white coat.
‘Be with you in
one second, love.’
Morton nodded
and looked around the high-ceilinged room. He could just catch a glimpse
of a large open room where a group of idle residents sat chatting, sleeping and
reading. It was difficult to picture how the building would have looked
in James Coldrick’s time here.
‘Right, how can
I help you, love?’ she asked, her Mancunian accent revealing her to be Linda,
with whom he had spoken yesterday.
‘Hi, I spoke to
you yesterday about the records dating back to when this place was a children’s
home,’ Morton said, offering his best smile.
‘Oh yes, did
you try the archives?’
‘Yes, I did but
unfortunately the file I wanted has gone adrift.’
‘Oh dear,’ she
said, a large frown set on her forehead. ‘Not sure what else you can do then,
love. As I said to you on the phone, we’ve not got anything here at all.’
‘You said you
were here when the records were transferred?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I was just
wondering if the archives gave you any kind of receipt or anything which said
exactly what they took?’ Morton asked, hopefully.
Linda screwed
her wrinkly face. ‘It’s possible but I can’t remember back that far,
love. I wouldn’t even know where to lay my hands on something like that
if we did keep it. Have you got a fax?’
Morton nodded.
‘I tell you what
I’ll do, give me your fax number and I’ll have a dig around and see what I can
find. How’s that sound?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got folders and filing
cabinets full of old junk upstairs.’
‘Perfect,’
Morton answered, scribbling down his fax number on a proffered piece of scrap
paper, which he was sure Linda would lose within half an hour. ‘Thanks
very much, I appreciate it,’ he added, hoping that a bit of sincerity might
encourage her to go rummaging. Morton thanked her again and left St
George's.
With so much of
Morton’s work involving being shut in confined spaces with little or no natural
light, he took a great deal of pleasure in being outdoors and greatly
appreciated the hot sun warming the nape of his neck. He trundled through
the archaic village, nodding respectfully to a gaggle of old ladies on their
way to the post office, consciously absorbing the detail of the village.
He scanned the village, dismissing houses or street furniture erected since the
forties. He began to feel and understand the place in which James
Coldrick was raised.
With sweat
beginning to bead on his forehead, Morton walked from the village centre up a
long, straight road with a gradual incline towards the parish church. The
road, unimaginatively named The Street , was dotted with expensive,
substantial homes with high fences and security gates. Of some luxurious
houses Morton could only catch a glimpse through gaps in the dense shrubbery
and carefully maintained trees.
The pavement
rose and eventually veered to the right, terminating at St John’s Church, a
typical sandstone-coloured building with a chancel, nave and tower.
Without any serious attempt at studying the architecture, he guessed the
earliest parts dated back to the fourteenth-century with other additions being
added in the latter centuries. He cast his eyes across the churchyard at
the range of memorials in front of him. Very recent, polished marble
graves stood adjacent to ancient, lichen-covered
for his liking.
He opened
another door that led into an air-conditioned reception area adorned with yet
more perfumed flowers. It occurred to him then that maybe these were funeral flowers. He was pleased to see a mauve-rinsed lady
single-finger-typing at a computer like a timid hen, pecking for grain.
She couldn’t possibly be the eloquent KC Fellows that he’d spoken to. She
raised a hand with ridged veins and liver spots to her temple. Morton
guessed her to be the wrong side of seventy. He might have mistaken her
for a resident but for her white coat.
‘Be with you in
one second, love.’
Morton nodded
and looked around the high-ceilinged room. He could just catch a glimpse
of a large open room where a group of idle residents sat chatting, sleeping and
reading. It was difficult to picture how the building would have looked
in James Coldrick’s time here.
‘Right, how can
I help you, love?’ she asked, her Mancunian accent revealing her to be Linda,
with whom he had spoken yesterday.
‘Hi, I spoke to
you yesterday about the records dating back to when this place was a children’s
home,’ Morton said, offering his best smile.
‘Oh yes, did
you try the archives?’
‘Yes, I did but
unfortunately the file I wanted has gone adrift.’
‘Oh dear,’ she
said, a large frown set on her forehead. ‘Not sure what else you can do then,
love. As I said to you on the phone, we’ve not got anything here at all.’
‘You said you
were here when the records were transferred?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I was just
wondering if the archives gave you any kind of receipt or anything which said
exactly what they took?’ Morton asked, hopefully.
Linda screwed
her wrinkly face. ‘It’s possible but I can’t remember back that far,
love. I wouldn’t even know where to lay my hands on something like that
if we did keep it. Have you got a fax?’
Morton nodded.
‘I tell you what
I’ll do, give me your fax number and I’ll have a dig around and see what I can
find. How’s that sound?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got folders and filing
cabinets full of old junk upstairs.’
‘Perfect,’
Morton answered, scribbling down his fax number on a proffered piece of scrap
paper, which he was sure Linda would lose within half an hour. ‘Thanks
very much, I appreciate it,’ he added, hoping that a bit of sincerity might
encourage her to go rummaging. Morton thanked her again and left St
George's.
With so much of
Morton’s work involving being shut in confined spaces with little or no natural
light, he took a great deal of pleasure in being outdoors and greatly
appreciated the hot sun warming the nape of his neck. He trundled through
the archaic village, nodding respectfully to a gaggle of old ladies on their
way to the post office, consciously absorbing the detail of the village.
He scanned the village, dismissing houses or street furniture erected since the
forties. He began to feel and understand the place in which James
Coldrick was raised.
With sweat
beginning to bead on his forehead, Morton walked from the village centre up a
long, straight road with a gradual incline towards the parish church. The
road, unimaginatively named The Street , was dotted with expensive,
substantial homes with high fences and security gates. Of some luxurious
houses Morton could only catch a glimpse through gaps in the dense shrubbery
and carefully maintained trees.
The pavement
rose and eventually veered to the right, terminating at St John’s Church, a
typical sandstone-coloured building with a chancel, nave and tower.
Without any serious attempt at studying the architecture, he guessed the
earliest parts dated back to the fourteenth-century with other additions being
added in the latter centuries. He cast his eyes across the churchyard at
the range of memorials in front of him. Very recent, polished marble
graves stood adjacent to ancient, lichen-covered
Similar Books
