“You fill out one of these forms.”
“What if I don’t know the date, or the name of the photographer?”
She sighs. “You don’t really want a photograph, do you?”
I shake my head. “I’m looking for a death notice.”
“How recently?”
“About fourteen years.”
She makes me wait while she calls upstairs. Then she asks if I have anything official looking, like a security pass or business card. She slides it into a plastic wallet and pins it to my shirt.
“The librarian knows you’re coming. If anyone asks you what you’re doing, say you’re researching a story for the medical pages.”
I take the lift to the fourth floor and follow the corridors. Occasionally I glimpse a large open-plan newsroom through the swing doors. I keep my head down and try to walk with a sense of purpose. Every so often my leg locks up and swings forward as though in a splint.
The librarian is in her sixties, with dyed hair and half-glasses that hang around her neck on a chain. She has a rubber thimble on her right thumb for turning pages. Her desk is surrounded by dozens of cacti.
She notices me looking. “We have to keep it too dry in here for anything else to grow,” she explains. “Any moisture will damage the newsprint.”
Long tables are strewn with newspapers. Someone is cutting out stories and placing them in neat piles. Another is reading each story and circling particular names or phrases. A third uses these references to sort the cuttings into files.
“We have bound volumes going back 150 years,” says the librarian. “The cuttings don’t last that long. Eventually they fall apart along the edges and crumble into dust.”
“I thought everything would be on computer by now,” I say.
“Only for the past ten years. It’s too expensive to scan all the bound volumes. They’re being put onto microfilm.”
She turns on a computer terminal and asks me what I need.
“I’m looking for a death notice published around 1988. Leonard Albert Edward Morgan…”
“Named after the old king.”
“I think he was a bus conductor. He might have lived or worked in a place called Heyworth Street.”
“In Everton,” she says, flicking at a keyboard with two fingers. “Most of the local buses either start or finish at the Pier Head or Paradise Street.”
I make a note of this on a pad. I concentrate on making the letters large and evenly spaced. It reminds me of being back in preschool— tracing huge letters on cheap paper with crayons that almost rested on your shoulder.
The librarian leads me through the maze of shelves that stretch from the wooden floor to the sprinklers on the ceiling. Eventually we reach an old oak desk, scarred by cutting blades. A microfiche machine sits at the center. She flicks a switch and the motor begins to hum. Another switch turns on the bulb and a square of light appears on the screen.
She hands me six boxes of film covering January to June 1988. Threading the first film onto the spools she presses fast-forward, accelerating through the pages and knowing almost instinctively when to stop. She points to the public notices and I make a note of the page number, hoping it will be roughly the same each day.
I trace my finger down the alphabetical listing looking for the letter M. Having satisfied myself there are no Morgans, I accelerate forward to the next day… and the next. The focus control is finicky and has to be constantly adjusted. At other times I have to pan back and forth to keep the newspaper columns on-screen.
Having finished the first batch I collect another six boxes of microfiche from the librarian. The newspapers around Christmas have more pages and take longer to search. As I finish November 1988 my anxiety grows. What if it’s not here? I can feel knots in my shoulder blades from leaning forward. My eyes ache.
The film rolls onto a new day. I find the death notices. For several seconds I carry on down the page before realizing what I’ve seen. I go back. There it is! I press my finger on the name as though frightened it might vanish.
Lenny A. Morgan
, aged 55, died on Saturday December 10 from burns received in an explosion at the Carnegie Engineering Works. Mr. Morgan, a popular bus conductor at the Green Lane Depot in Stanley, was a former merchant seaman and a prominent union delegate. He is survived by his sisters, Ruth and Louise, and sons Dafyyd, 19, and Robert, 8. A service will be conducted at 1 p.m. Tuesday at St. James’ Church in Stanley. The family requests that memorial tributes take the form of contributions to the Socialist Worker’s Party.
I go back through papers for the week before. An accident like this must have been reported. I find the news story at the bottom of page five. The headline reads: WORKER DIES IN DEPOT BLAST.
A Liverpool bus conductor has died after an explosion at the Carnegie Engineering Works on Saturday afternoon. Lenny Morgan, 55, suffered burns to 80 percent of his body when welding equipment ignited gas fumes. The blast and fire severely damaged the workshop, destroying two buses.
Mr. Morgan was taken to Rathbone Hospital where he died on Saturday evening without regaining consciousness. The Liverpool coroner has begun an investigation into what caused the explosion.
Friends and workmates paid tribute to Mr. Morgan yesterday describing him as extremely popular with the traveling public, who enjoyed his eccentricities. “Lenny used to dress in a Santa hat and serenade the passengers with carols at Christmas,” said supervisor Bert McMullen.
At three o’clock I rewind the microfilm, pack it into boxes and thank the librarian for her help. She doesn’t ask me if I found what I wanted. She’s too busy trying to repair the spine of a bound volume that someone has dropped.
Despite looking through another two months of newspapers, I found no further references to the accident. There must have been an inquest. As I ride down in the lift I flick through my notes. What am I looking for? Some link to Catherine. I don’t know where she grew up, but her grandfather certainly worked in Liverpool. My instincts tell me that she and Bobby met in care— either at a children’s home, or at a psych hospital.
Bobby didn’t mention having a brother. Considering that Bridget was only twenty-one when she had Bobby, Dafyyd was either adopted or more likely Lenny had an earlier marriage that produced a son.
Lenny had two sisters but I only have the maiden name, which makes it harder to find them. Even if they didn’t marry, how many Morgans are likely to be in the Liverpool phone book? I don’t want to have to go there.
Pushing through the revolving door, I’m so lost in thought I go around twice before finding the outside. Taking the steps carefully, I fix my bearings and head toward Lime Street Station.
I hate to admit it, but I’m enjoying this: the search. I’m motivated. I have a mission. Last-minute shoppers fill the footpaths and queue for buses. I’m tempted to find the number 96 and see where it takes me. Lucky dips are for people who like surprises. Instead I hail a cab and ask for the Green Lane Bus Depot.
8
A mechanic holds a carburetor in one blackened hand and gives me directions with the other. The pub is called the Tramway Hotel and Bert McMullen is usually at the bar.
“How will I recognize him?”
The mechanic chuckles and turns back to the engine, leaning inside the bowels of a bus.
I find the Tramway easily enough. Someone has scrawled graffiti on the blackboard outside: A beer means never having to say, “I’m thirsty.” Pushing through the door, I enter a dimly lit room, with stained floors and bare wooden furniture. Red bulbs above the bar give the place a pink tinge like a Wild West bordello. Black-and-white photographs of trams and antique buses decorate the walls, alongside posters for “live” music.