“Family stories. There wasn’t a lot to do here for entertainment apart from make cider and tell tales. Probably at the same time.” Morgan had spent many happy hours enthralled by the family raconteurs. “And he’d been taken to see the very field, although it no longer belonged to us. I can take you there, but I can’t promise there’s much to see that would be relevant to your research.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Cadoc it is, then.” Dominic pronounced the name as no local would have done, but Morgan wasn’t going to correct him. “And you’ve always lived here? Apart from the time in London,” he added hastily, as though he was aware of having made a faux pas.
“All my life, apart from three years in Cardiff at uni. Then another three years on and off in London.” Funny how he’d been so keen then to get away from the confines of Porthkennack. Cardiff had been revelation enough, but London itself had felt like Paradise. Yet the capital had ended up feeling more confining, more stifling, than this little headland ever had. Or maybe it had been James doing the stifling? “But you know that.”
“I’m not sure I know much about anything.” Dominic frowned. “But from your expression, I think I’ve prodded the elephant in the room. Sorry.”
Not the main elephant, but certainly one of the herd. What had Dominic been told, and how had James explained his familiarity with the private story of the beams? “What did James actually tell you about me and him?”
Dominic, forehead crinkled in thought, stared out towards the sea. “Not a lot. Your James doesn’t give much personal stuff away.”
“Hm. Well, he’s no longer my James, so I’d prefer you not to call him that.” Morgan’s short fuse made its presence felt at every mention of the rat.
“Sorry.” That flaming word again. “I didn’t realise things were quite so touchy. He said that you’d parted as friends.”
Morgan snorted. “I bet he did. He might well have believed we were. Hold on.” He smelled another rat, apart from James himself. “When exactly did you meet him?”
“About a week before I rang you. I know it sounds daft, but it took me ages to work up the courage to get in contact.” Dominic gave him a glance. “We were both at a big promo do at an art gallery. James’s company had done work for them, and my lot were one of their sponsors. I got dragged along to do my corporate bit, bored stiff until I found a modern watercolour of Cornwall. James seemed as interested in it as I was.”
Dominic gave an account of the chat with James, the audit trail of words and ideas by which conversations moved and ended up elsewhere, how discussion of childhood holidays in the West Country had turned to adult obsession with wrecks, but Morgan was only half listening.
He’d done his own mental maths—a week before Dominic’s phone call, he and James had still supposedly been an item, if living apart to see if absence rekindled the flame. The bastard, to say they’d already split up. What if Dominic had rung Morgan the next day after the meeting and referred to James as “your ex”? The rat would have appreciated not having to break the bad news himself.
Dominic, wincing, said, “Sorry. I’ve clearly put my foot in it somewhere.”
Why the hell did Dominic spend his whole life apologising? “Stop fucking saying sorry.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve nothing to apologise for. Unlike James. I wasn’t aware we’d split up at the time he met you.”
“Ah. Sor—” Dominic put his hand to his mouth. “Maybe it’s best if I go.” He reached down for the rucksack which lay at his feet.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, there’s no need. You shouldn’t suffer because he’s such an A1 arsehole.” Morgan managed a smile.
“At the risk of putting my foot in it again, I must confess that—now I’ve met you—I’m surprised you two ever were an item.”
“Why?” Morgan’s hackles rose again. “I could pull the city slickers in my heyday.”
“I never doubted you could,” Dominic said, with a sudden grin. “You’ve got the looks and probably the knack. I never had. It’s just that James . . . Would you mind if I was entirely honest?”
“I would find that refreshing.”
“Okay. It’s just that James seemed such a slimy git, it amazes me you put up with him. You could do much better for yourself.”
Morgan found himself lost for words. That was the last few years summed up in a sentence. He shrugged, and got another smile in return. “That’s exactly the confidence boost I needed right now. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Not that your private life is any of my business, and not that I have anything sensible to say about it, given my useless romantic record. My experience could get written large on the back of a postage stamp.” Dominic shrugged.
Morgan found himself torn between saying Don’t do yourself down and Stop fishing for compliments. He rejected both as too flirtatious, settling for, “Want to go and see the Devil’s Anvil a bit closer up? Tide’s pretty well as far out as it’ll go.”
“Can you doubt the answer?” Dominic let Morgan take his arm and pull him out of his chair. “Especially with a local guide to show me the things I might have missed.”
“No pressure on me to get the facts right, then.” Morgan grinned and let go his guest’s arm, the sensation of Dominic’s silk shirt still haunting his fingers. Dominic produced yet another of his stunning smiles in return.
Those exchanged glances were undoing all Morgan’s resolve.
The familiar cliff edge always seemed less hazardous on a still afternoon like this one, despite the notice warning people of the dangers of going too near the edge or attempting the path in bad weather. It led down to the little sandy bay, tacking across the cliff face in a series of natural and uneven steps, all of them showing their age; nonetheless, it appeared inviting.
“I wonder how many people carved that trail, treading the grass away over the years?” Dominic stared at the drop down to the sand.
“Too many. Let’s add another two, though.” Morgan led the way, sure-footed from years of making this descent.
“Do you think all those people thought they were the first to discover this place?”
“Maybe.” The idea appealed at some deep level to the explorer instinct. Being the first to tread virgin sand, to have found the wide pool that got left when the tide ebbed; the right to say, I came here first. I claimed it.
“They’d all have been wrong, of course,” Morgan continued. “People must have been walking here since the caveman came along and fancied a dip. I can’t believe the local Stone Age folk confined themselves to flint knapping or chasing bears.”
“I’d never thought of that. Good point.” Dominic eyed the waves, although they were behaving immaculately, about as threatening as a lido. “Isn’t it dangerous to swim here, with the rocks and all?”
“Maybe they’d have had a paddle, then. Or a sunbathe, if Neanderthals did that.” Morgan, ignoring the last couple of steps, jumped the final few feet onto the sand. “If you feel like swimming, there’s a natural pool that people sometimes use.”
“Really? I was only ever allowed to play on the sand. Mum was too protective of us.” Dominic sat on a convenient rock to loosen his shoes. “And we always seemed to get the tide times wrong, although I suspect it was deliberate. Mother wouldn’t have wanted her boy to risk his neck with those rocks.”
While his guest bared his feet, Morgan sat thinking. Dominic must, surely, have been on this beach, or up on the cliff path, in summer while he wasn’t far away, playing in the garden. Or maybe Dominic would have been walking one way along the path while he and Mum took their old Labrador the other way. They’d have passed, like ships in the night.
Ships in the night. Morgan shivered, despite the warmth of the sun. “Not many people are brave enough to use the path any longer, so I get the place to myself when I choose to come here. Although it’s still a favourite place with lovers, apparently.”
“I can understand that.” Dominic peered up the cliff face, shading his eyes. “You wouldn’t b
e seen because of that overhang.”
“And the rocks mostly protect you being seen from seaward. Ships don’t come too near.” Another sudden frisson, this time at the thought of Troilus getting too close.
“Sand’s soft too.” Dominic squatted on his haunches, passing rivulets of sand between his fingers before beginning to accumulate a little collection of shells—winkles, limpets, and something broken Morgan couldn’t name. “A bit too public for me, though.”
“Glad to hear it.” Morgan had never fancied alfresco love. Although maybe that admission had been a touch too much, given the embarrassed smile playing on Dominic’s lips. “Right, I’m going to park my arse somewhere not too sandy.”
They settled themselves on a wide, flat, comfortable rock, Dominic still jiggling the shells in his hand. “This was always my favourite sunbathing spot.”
“Mine too. Dad’s favourite, as well.”
“Your dad was interested in history, I think you said?”
“Yeah. Among other things. He was a serial hobbyist, dabbling at this and that and changing every few years.” The loft contained boxes of old paints, books, postcards, and craft tools that paid testament to his varied pastimes. “Family histories—ours and other locals’—was the last of many.”
“Shame. I mean shame it wasn’t ships and shame that he’s gone. I won’t say the obvious ‘you must miss him’ because that’s simply crass.”
“Thanks. I do miss him, though. He was the best bloke I ever knew.”
Dominic fiddled with the shells again. “Want to change the subject? I’m clearly suffering foot-in-mouth disease.”
“Nah. You’re okay. What do they say? ‘It’s good to talk.’ James was never keen on getting things in the open, and my brother’s just as useless.” Morgan gave his guest a grateful smile. “I won’t go all blubbery and great wet lettuce on you.”
“That’s good. I don’t mind some big, hairy rugby player crying pre-game when they play ‘God Save the Queen’ but otherwise I don’t cope that well.” Dominic started flicking the shells onto the sand. “Anyway, you’re wrong about your dad being the best. I’d put him equal with my old man.”
“Pillock.” Morgan slapped the bloke’s arm, sending the rest of the shells flying. “I was being serious.”
“I was being unnecessarily flippant.” Dominic’s apologetic grin expressed the word he’d been banned from using. “Trouble is I’m so used to getting the whole sob story—with or without tears—about how awful parents are and how they’ve made people’s lives hell. Times are I’ve felt guilty that I had it so easy.”
Morgan nodded. “Yeah. People enjoy being victims; they like to blame someone else. I know that some guys do get a really rough deal, but I also know that it can just be a line they trail.” He took a long, cleansing breath. “I was a pillock too, back when I was a teenager.”
“Some might say you still are.”
“Ha bloody ha. Anyway, I was worried that my dad would flip his lid when I came out—he’d once mentioned something about a guy he knew at school who was gay and how he’d been beaten up one night on Clapham Common. I got it into my head that he approved of what had happened.”
“Bloody hell.”
“I worked myself up into a right state. Thought he’d told me the story because he hated queers. Or, worse still, had suspected that I was one and was warning me off confessing it to him.”
Dominic closed his eyes, whether against the bright sun on the water or in disgust, who could tell? “So what tipped the balance? Surely you came out to him in the end if you reckon he was so great?”
“Yeah, of course I did. And it was a couple of pints of Chough’s Nest beer that tipped the balance by loosening my tongue.” It had been a memorable evening, the chat turning out better than the beer, which might have been gnat’s pee for all that Morgan could recollect of the actual drinking he’d done. “I’d been a complete idiot, as usual. I was so worried I’d screwed myself into imagining all sorts of crap. It turned out the point of him telling me the Clapham Common story was that he’d guessed about me being gay and was worried I’d end up being duffed over like the other bloke if he didn’t warn me about what might happen.”
“Oh, what a star.” Dominic chuckled. “Isn’t that just about the biggest problem in the world, when people don’t talk to each other?”
“After world hunger and disappearing megafauna, maybe.” Morgan raised a finger. “Don’t say sorry. I was being flippant too. Communication may not be the world’s most urgent issue, but it causes plenty of problems.”
“Yeah. Mind you, if the couples in the average rom com sat down and talked things through rather than jumping to conclusions, there’d be no story line, would there? Nobody could fall into the trap of assuming the fit girl the leading man was cuddling up to was anything but his sister.”
Morgan sniggered. “Do you fancy paddling today? I won’t tell your mother.”
“So long as you keep that promise. She still thinks I’m aged about seven. Says I don’t eat enough and should wear my vest. I’ve not worn a vest in years.” Dominic leaped up, grinning. Morgan had been wrong about James casting his line at this particular fish—the rat would never have put up with such unsophisticated enthusiasm. A tug at his arm flushed thoughts of James out of his mind. “Come on, slowcoach.”
“Race you.” Morgan sped down to the water’s edge, sending sand flying.
Dominic, clutching his side, was hard on his heels. “Not fair. I’ve got a stitch.”
“Out of condition, you.”
“I need to get back into practice, then. I used to hare along here when I was little. Bloody loved every moment we spent here.” Dominic stretched his arms. “I kept pestering my parents, asking why we couldn’t move to Porthkennack permanently.”
“Organising life always seems easy when you’re nine. No obstacles in your mind.”
“Too true. My mother used to say we couldn’t move down to Cornwall because it wouldn’t be an extra special place if we lived here all the time. That was only half the story; I know now it would never have been workable.”
“Just as well. Or else we’d be invaded by oiks like you.” Morgan smiled, as they diced with the waves’ farthest reach. “As I said, my family have always lived in Cornwall. Or at least my father’s family have, probably back to the time of the Conqueror. My mother’s lot were very new. End of the eighteenth century.”
“Practically grockles.” Dominic bent to scoop up a batch of pebbles, weighing them in his hands, then leaping back as the water splashed his feet. “That’s bloody freezing.”
“Too early in the season.” Morgan found some pebbles, as well, flinging them out to sea as though they’d carry all his problems away with them. “Dad used to get caught out too. He’d be in here wave jumping almost as soon as spring had sprung. Drove my mum mental.” He winced.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Ignore me. Just got a serious case of verbal diarrhoea. All sorts of crap pops out when it shouldn’t.”
Dominic, nibbling his lip, glanced at him sidelong, then flung a few more stones and waited.
Morgan eventually broke the silence. “It’s not been easy the last few years.”
“What else happened?” Dominic sent a pebble skimming across the surface of the waves, bouncing an impressive number of times before submerging. “Result!”
“That was a corker.” Morgan tried to emulate it and failed. “What happened? Life fell apart. The whole works.” There, he’d done it: begun the big admission, and the world hadn’t ended. “Dad died, Mum was taken ill. Final nail in the coffin of my ability to cope was splitting with James.”
“I’m not very comfortable with touchy-feely.” Dominic kept his gaze fixed out to sea and the Devil’s Anvil’s great jagged grin. “But I’m a good listener.”
“I think you’ve proven that.” Morgan kept chucking pebbles; the activity was unexpectedly therapeutic. “Not long after Dad died, Mum started showing signs o
f dementia.”
“Oh hell.”
“You can say that again. Bit of a conversation stopper.” Chuck another pebble. “When it’s a hip replacement or something physical, people are great. They all rally round. When it’s in the mind, people never know what to say or do.”
Dominic shrugged, tossing the pebbles in his hands. “It doesn’t bother me. I can understand; I mean it’s not hit me quite so close to home, but I get it.”
“Similar thing in your family too?” Here was just a glimmer of hope; a chance he’d finally met somebody he could open up to.
“Yeah. My grandmother. We all felt so bloody helpless.”
Morgan nodded. Yeah, Dominic “got it.” “I ended up shuttling back and forth for a while, then she got so bad she had to go into a home, just over a year ago. The house was empty for a while, then I started to visit for the odd week or two here and there.”
“And what did James think?”
“He was understanding, or at least he appeared to be. I felt guilty as sin, torn between the two places. In the end I found I couldn’t stay in London. I came back and began tidying up her affairs . . . then found this was where I needed to be. I didn’t want us to have to deal with the same sort of mess Dad had left.”
“Did James prefer doing a bunk than helping you cope long-term?” Dominic’s bluntness was never going to earn him a career in the diplomatic corps.
“In his defence, it wasn’t like that. Not quite, anyway. He was really good at the time Dad died. It had been a hell of a shock to all of us.” But death was comparatively easy to deal with: serious and conventional and almost dignified. Going senile by degrees wasn’t. “It was so sudden. Cerebral aneurism. One day Dad was right as rain and the next . . .” Morgan steadied his hands, gripping the little pebbles to the point his fingers hurt.
“Sudden or expected, it’s never easy to deal with.”
“I wasn’t even here when it happened. I just managed to get down to say a last good-bye, although he couldn’t have known me by then. Thank God we’d spoken on the phone a couple of days before.” They’d spoken every week, unlike Eddie, who’d been on the blower to their mother every few days, which was ironic given how rarely he visited her now. But maybe that particular closeness had made her decline much harder for him to face. Morgan had always favoured his Dad, and they’d never stopped loving each other—fiercely, protectively both ways. Coming back here and being close to Mum had been a duty Morgan felt he owed his father. No, duty wasn’t the right word; it made it sound onerous and unwanted. It was more a mark of respect to the old man, carrying out what he surely would have done were he still alive.
Broke Deep (Porthkennack Book 3) Page 6