The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

behind him. ‘Oh, it is lovely to see you, Morton,’ she beamed. ‘Where’s that lovely wife of yours?’ Then she spotted Juliette over his shoulder. ‘There she is!’ Margaret pulled back from Morton, planted a wet kiss on his cheek then moved towards Juliette.

‘Nephew!’ Jim hollered in his usual greeting, thrusting a brawny hand for Morton to shake. Where Margaret had made an extra effort for the occasion, Jim appeared as he always had; as though he had just stepped from his fishing boat. He was a big man, tall and wide with a flushed sea-beaten complexion and wild hair which looked as though it had not been brushed in a very long time.

Morton was aware, in his peripheral vision, of movement around the lounge doorway. He turned around to see Jack, smiling, holding Grace. Behind him, with her hand placed territorially on her husband’s shoulder, was Laura.

Before the awkwardness was able to take a firm shape in the small hallway, Morton moved back, allowing Margaret and Jack to see one another for the first time in forty-four years. ‘I don’t need to introduce you two, do I?’ Morton asked, with a chuckle which sounded odd even to him.

Jack and Margaret met awkwardly, him leaning in to kiss her left cheek, as she presented her hand to shake. Simultaneously realising the other’s intentions, he faltered in his attempts to kiss her, while she retracted her hand, the result being a blundering mash, where she kissed his ear and his hand squashed into her right breast.

 ‘Good to see you again, Margaret,’ Jack said, treading backwards from the muddle, his face flushing in the way that Morton’s did through embarrassment.

‘It’s been a very long time,’ Margaret answered with a discomfited smile.

Ignoring the cringing spectacle of Margaret and Jack’s meeting, Morton introduced Laura to Margaret and Jim, who, having been witness to the spectacle of their spouses’ reunion, went for the safe hand-shaking option. Laura squeezed herself into the hallway, allowing George to be part of the introductions.

‘Where’s that birthday girl, then?’ Margaret asked.

‘Playing with her new toys in the lounge,’ Juliette answered. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

‘Let me take your coats,’ Morton said to Margaret and Jim. ‘Then go and take a seat in the kitchen for dinner.’

Morton used the time hanging the two coats to try and settle his breathing. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead onto Jim’s wax jacket, trying to will the surging adrenalin to subside. He took a long breath, counted to ten, then entered the kitchen cheerfully.

He could not help but smile at what was unfolding before him, as conversations had sprung ablaze which bridged family boundaries and divided the sexes: Laura, Juliette and Margaret were discussing the weather; Jack, Jim and George were comparing travel anecdotes about flights and about traffic jams. His family had, in those potentially awkward few moments, unitedly placed a seal over the single precise reason which had brought them together. Whether that seal was temporary, or whether the past would return during the meal, time alone would tell.

‘So,’ Juliette announced, ferrying the final dishes to the table, ‘I’ve made a couple of salads, some garlic bread, a creamy courgette lasagne and a beef lasagne—so, please, help yourselves.’

Whilst everyone offered their gratitude to Juliette, who plopped herself down between Grace and Laura, Morton stood back in horror, taking stock of the seating arrangements, which a psychologist would have been elated to have analysed. The men had seated themselves on one side, with the women, including Grace, on the other. Just one seat remained—that at the head of the table—positioned appallingly as arbiter between both of his biological parents. It was a surreal moment for him and one that he had thought would never happen; so normal, and yet, so very not normal.

The plates and dishes of food were passed with polite exchanges, crossing the table until everybody had sufficient on their plates to begin eating.

Juliette deftly broke a short moment of silence by saying, ‘So, Morton said that you’ve visited England before. Did you manage to get down to Cornwall?’

Morton was impressed at how her astute question had pulled Laura, George and Jim into one conversation. Now it was his turn to do the same with Jack and Margaret. Except, he did not know what to say. As he forked a heap of lasagne into his mouth, he deliberated over what they could talk about. If he asked either of them about their lives back home, then it was directly excluding the other, or presuming a mutual interest. The only common intersection between their lives, of which he could think, was the very thing about which nobody wanted to speak. He chewed slowly, taking a quick glance to each side. Both of them were eating, listening in with detached smiles to the conversation at the other end of the table. They were speaking about Cadgwith, the picturesque fishing village where Jim and Margaret lived. Morton tried to think of something which latched on to their conversation thread, but which he could pull back and make just between the three of them. But the moment passed.

It was Jack who filled the void. ‘So, tell me about your life, Margaret,’ he said, with a smile which suggested he was fully aware of the vastness of his question.

Margaret laughed. ‘Well, Jim and I are retired now, although he can’t quite stop messing about with fishing boats and giving advice to the younger ones in the village. We’ve got a nice little place overlooking the sea. I say I’m retired, but actually I seem to do more now than I did when I was working. I’m involved in lots of village activities, we go walking. I bake…’ She shrugged. ‘That’s probably my life at the moment!’

‘Sounds idyllic. How long have you lived in Cornwall?’ Jack asked. ‘Your accent sounds pretty Cornish now.’