Gwen would likely rather die than actively attempt to make contact with her stepson; but Joyce sent him records. There wasn't really a set schedule – just a slim parcel in the post every so often; sometimes with an accompanying letter detailing his little sister's latest escapades with her best friend, Di, often with one or two photographs to prove it.
The records themselves weren't especially predictable, either, ranging from operatic pieces by Wagner and Strauss, through Mozart sonatas to odds and ends of choral music (there had been a rather good recording of Holst's Ave Maria once) that didn't necessarily arrive in the original sleeves, but always played beautifully.
Records from Joyce were filed separately from the rest, although the same general system applied; the letters and photographs were tucked away at the bottom of Morse's sock drawer. Occasionally, he'd actually get around to writing a reply.
That was one of the beauties of writing to Joyce – she never seemed to mind that his letters were few and far between, or that the little gifts he sent with them sometimes were probably not always particularly well-thought-out (although she had been extremely fond of that one poetry book he'd picked up when he inadvertently wandered into a bookshop whilst attempting to remember where he'd seen a particular symbol before): probably just as well, really, considering she was the only family he had left who still acknowledged his existence when he wasn't actually at home…if it could even be called home any more. Well, as long as Joyce was there, he probably could call it that. She might well have something to say about it otherwise.