“You didn’t.”
“No, but I felt like it.”
“I’ll be out of town for a few days. The police might ask you questions about where I am. That’s why it’s best if I don’t tell you.”
She doesn’t reply.
“You can get me on my mobile. Call me, please. Give Charlie an extra hug from me. I’ll go now. I love you.”
I hang up quickly, afraid to hear her silence.
Locking the door on my way out, I push the heavy key deep into my trouser pocket. Twice on my way down the stairs I feel for it. Instead I find Bobby’s whale. I trace its shape with my fingers.
Outside an icy wind pushes me along Hanover Street toward the Albert Docks. Liverpool reminds me of an old woman’s handbag full of bric-a-brac, odds and ends and half-finished packets of hard candies. Edwardian pubs squat beside mountainous cathedrals and art-deco office blocks that can’t decide which continent they should be on. Some of the more modern buildings have dated so quickly that they look like derelict bingo halls only fit for the bulldozer.
The Cotton Exchange in Old Hall Street is a grand reminder of when Liverpool was the center of the international cotton trade, feeding the Lancashire spinning industry. When the exchange building opened in 1906 it had telephones, electric lifts, synchronized electric clocks and a direct cable to the New York futures market. Now it houses, among other things, thirty million records of births, deaths and marriages in Lancashire.
A strange mixture of people queue at the indexes— a class of schoolchildren on an excursion; American tourists on the trail of distant relations; matronly women in tweed skirts; probate researchers and fortune hunters.
I have a goal. It seems fairly realistic. I queue at the color-coded volumes where I hope to find the registration of Bobby’s birth. With this I can get a birth certificate, which will in turn give me the names of his mother and father, and their place of residence and occupations.
The volumes are stored on metal racks, listed by month and year. The 1970s and 1980s are arranged in quarters for each year, with surnames in alphabetical order. If Bobby has told the truth about his age, I might only have four volumes to search.
The year should be 1980. I can find no entry for a Bobby Moran or Robert Moran. I start working through the years on either side, going as far back as 1974 and forward to 1984. Growing frustrated I look at my notes. I wonder if Bobby could have changed the spelling of his name or altered it entirely by deed poll. If so, I’m in trouble.
At the front information desk I ask to borrow a phone book. I can’t tell if I’m charming people with my smile or frightening them. The Parkinson’s mask is unpredictable.
Bobby lied about where he went to school, but perhaps he didn’t lie about the name. There are two St. Mary’s in Liverpool— only one of them is a junior school. I make a note of the number and find a quiet corner in the foyer to make the call. The secretary has a Scouse accent and sounds like a character in a Ken Loach film.
“We’re closed for Christmas,” she says. “I shouldn’t even be here. I was just tidying up the office.”
I make up a story about a sick friend who wants to track down his old mates. I’m looking for yearbooks or class photographs from the mid-eighties. She thinks the library has a cupboard full of that sort of thing. I should call back in the New Year.
“It can’t wait that long. My friend is very sick. It’s Christmas.”
“I might be able to check,” she says sympathetically. “What year are you looking for?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“How old is your friend.”
“Twenty-two.”
“What is his name?”
“I think his name might have been different back then. That’s why I need to see the photographs. I’ll be able to recognize him.”
She is suddenly less sure of me. Her suspicion increases when I suggest coming to the school. She wants to ask the headmistress. Better still, I should put my request in writing and send it by post.
“I don’t have time. My friend…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Wait! Please! Can you just look up a name for me? It’s Bobby Moran. He might have worn glasses. He would have started in about 1985.”
She hesitates. After a long pause she suggests that I call her back in twenty minutes.
I go in search of fresh air. Outside, at the entrance to an alley, a man stands beside a blackened barrow. Every so often he yells, “Roooooost chestnooooots,” making it sound as plaintive as a gull’s cry. He hands me a brown paper bag and I sit on the steps, peeling the sooty skin from the warm chestnuts.
One of my fondest memories of Liverpool is the food. The fish and chips and Friday night curries. The jam roly-poly, bread and butter pudding, treacle sponge, bangers and mash… I also loved the odd assortment of people— Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Irish, African and Chinese— good workers, fiercely proud and not afraid to wear their hearts and wipe their noses on the same sleeve.
The school secretary is less circumspect this time. Her curiosity has been sparked. My search has become hers.
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find any Bobby Moran. Are you sure that you don’t mean Bobby Morgan? He was here from 1985 to 1988. He left in third grade.”
“Why did he leave?”
“I’m not sure.” Her voice is uncertain. “I wasn’t here then. A family tragedy?” There is someone she can ask, she says. Another teacher. She takes the name of my hotel and promises to leave a message.
Back at the color-coded volumes I go through the names again. Why would Bobby change his surname by a single letter? Was he breaking with the past or trying to hide from it?
In the third volume I find an entry for Robert John Morgan. Born 24 September 1980 at Liverpool University Hospital. Mother: Bridget Elsie Morgan (née Aherne). Father: Leonard Albert Edward Morgan (merchant seaman).
I still can’t be absolutely sure that it’s Bobby, but the chances are good. I fill out a pink application form to order a copy of his full birth certificate. The clerical officer behind the glass screen has an aggressive chin and flared nostrils. He pushes the form back toward me. “You haven’t stated your reasons.”
“I’m tracing my family history.”
“What about your postal address?”
“I’ll pick it up from here.”
Without ever looking up at me, he thumps the applications with a fist-sized stamp. “Come back in the New Year. We close from Monday for the holidays.”
“But I can’t wait that long.”
He shrugs. “We open until midday on Monday. You could try then.”
Ten minutes later I leave the exchange building with a receipt in my pocket. Three days. I can’t wait that long. In the time it takes me to cross the pavement I make a new plan.
The offices of The Liverpool Echo look like a mirrored Rubik’s cube. The foyer is full of pensioners on a day tour. Each has a souvenir bag and a stick-on name tag.
A young receptionist is sitting on a high stool behind a dark wooden counter. She is small and pale, with curry-colored eyes. To her left is a metal barrier with a swipe-card entry that separates us from the lifts.
“My name is Professor Joseph O’Loughlin and I was hoping to use your library.”
“I’m sorry but we don’t allow public access to the newspaper library.” A large bunch of flowers is sitting on the counter beside her.
“They’re lovely,” I say.
“Not mine, I’m afraid. The fashion editor gets all the freebies.”
“I’m sure you get more than your share.”
She knows I’m flirting, but laughs anyway.
“What if I want to order a photograph?” I ask.