Broke Deep (Porthkennack Book 3)

by Charlie Cochrane

  “You’re on. Ring me with an update.”

  “I will. Hope to see you some time tomorrow.”

  Morgan watched the car drive away before he headed for the hospital entrance. Had that invitation for Dominic to stay been solely motivated by hospitality? Or had there been something else lurking there, something he didn’t want to admit to himself?

  He found the entrance to the accident and emergency department, and made his way to a desk where he had to wait while they processed what looked like a holidaymaker whose arm had suffered a close encounter with a sharp object.

  “I’m Mrs. Capell’s son,” he told the receptionist, once it was his turn. “Is she all right?” Stupid bloody, typically English question. Of course she wasn’t all right or why the ambulance dash to casualty?

  “She’s gone through. I’ll give them a ring to find out what’s happening.”

  Morgan waited, increasingly frustrated as he listened to half the conversation and tried to guess the rest. At last, the receptionist addressed him.

  “You can go through now. They’re expecting you.”

  “Thanks.” Morgan followed the signs, picking a trail past patients, relatives, paramedics, some of whose bank holiday weekends were clearly turning into a nightmare. He found where he had to go, being greeted by a young female doctor with a tired but welcoming smile.

  “She needs a period of observation, that’s all. She came down with a bit of a bump, but we don’t think she’ll need to stay in here longer than overnight. She’ll be as well looked after in the nursing home.” The doctor led him past a row of curtained cubicles, through a door, and into a small side ward. “You might want to prepare yourself for her appearance. There’s a fair bit of bruising on her arm.”

  Fleeting thoughts of horror stories about nightmare care homes and the abuse they’d given the people in their care flitted through Morgan’s mind but were put onto the back burner. He’d had no suspicions on that front, heard no whispers; if there were any problems, the Porthkennack gossip machine would have been trumpeting them. And if bruising on the arm was all he had to prepare himself for, then he’d be happy.

  “Will she really be okay? You’re not trying to fob me off?”

  “Yes, she will, and no, I’m not. There’s nothing broken. They say she needs a lot of rest to let everything recover. It takes a little while at that age, you know.” The doctor smiled again, exuding a no-nonsense, reassuring air, although Morgan wasn’t comforted by it. He couldn’t shift his guilt at the fact he and Dominic had been arsing about on the beach when the accident had happened.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” the doctor said, as they reached his mother’s bed. She was asleep, peaceful, with a childlike contentment on her face. “There’s no hurry at the moment to discharge her. We’ll chat again later.”

  “Yes. Thanks.” Morgan took a chair, settling himself down before getting his bearings in the ward.

  The woman in the next bed appeared frail, paper thin in places, as if a puff of air might blow her away. Thank God Mum still had a wiry strength about her, still looked as though she might walk out of here and go back to Cadoc practically unaided. The bruises were nowhere near as bad as Morgan had imagined, and when she was resting quietly like this, it seemed hard to believe she wasn’t the same woman who’d often been asleep in a deckchair in the garden only a couple of years previously.

  How could an illness that changed a person so entirely leave so few external signs?

  The effects of the day’s drinks were making themselves felt, and he’d best use the facilities while his mother was out for the count. He found a passing nurse, got directions to the visitors’ loo, and found welcome relief.

  As Morgan washed his hands, he studied his reflection in the mirror; the face he saw was exactly the same as when Dad was still alive, if pale and drawn after the rush to get to the hospital. How could the traumas of the last few years have left so few marks on him too?

  Late Monday morning, after a reasonable night’s sleep, Morgan got on the phone as promised.

  “Hel-lo?” A cheery voice sounded down the line.

  “Dominic?”

  “Who else do you think would be answering my mobile—some hunky bloke I picked up last night?” Dominic snorted. “How are things?”

  Morgan smiled; it was good to have one point of constancy and humour in his life. Dominic had come along just when needed. “Mum’s fine. Badly bruised but nothing broken. She was surprisingly lucid once she woke, despite the shock and the painkillers. I stayed with her until the ambulance came to take her back to the nursing home.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. All round.”

  “Thanks. It was a relief that the drugs didn’t make her more confused.”

  “Yeah. I’ve only been on morphine once and I wouldn’t want to repeat it. Off my face and propositioning the doctors.” Dominic laughed. “I was getting a bit worried when I hadn’t heard from you. Thought the news might have turned serious.”

  “Yeah, sorry about not ringing earlier. Didn’t get home until the wee small hours and then I simply crashed straight out.” And then some. Morgan had been out like a light until half ten this morning; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept that well.

  “Hey, don’t you say sorry if I’m not allowed to!”

  “Touché.” Morgan chuckled. “What are your plans for the day?” Did that sound too hopeful or too desperate? Too late to take it back.

  “I’m doing some extra research, of course. All the areas I’d have been investigating if you hadn’t been distracting me with biscuits and beaches. Working my way through some old papers and maps I brought here and seeing if they stand up against the evidence of what’s still here. Might give me a hint of their overall reliability.”

  “Good thinking. Much of this place hasn’t changed over the years. Certainly not the basic geography.” Morgan felt a bit jealous—he’d have liked to go along and help with that research, but the biscuits and beaches and the hospital run had left him with a pile of unfinished jobs too.

  “I know. It’s stuck in a time warp. I’ve got some Edwardian pictures that could have been taken yesterday. Um, are we still on for dinner tonight? If you’re not too tired, of course.”

  “Yes, we are. And I’m about to make sure the guest bedroom’s aired and made up. What time will you get here?”

  “Is midafternoon all right? I think I’ll have done what I need to by then.”

  “Perfect. I’ll have the kettle on.”

  “You and your teapot—that’s an offer nobody could resist.” With another laugh, Dominic hung up, leaving Morgan to get into host mode.

  It was good having a bed to make up and dusting to do, plus a dozen little domestic things which helped Morgan keep his mind off his mother. Thinking about Dominic helped too. The bloke had changed—the nice, kind, relaxed bloke in the car hadn’t sounded like the stuffed-up guy who’d first made contact. If the one who’d driven him into Newquay was the real Dominic, then Morgan was really glad he’d be hanging around another day.

  The nursing home rang after lunch to say she’d had a good night and was now awake, eating well, and in pretty good nick, considering. They advised him not to visit for a day or so, to let her settle back down again, which was a weight off his shoulders.

  He threw himself into work—his as yet unattended emails another good way of keeping his mind occupied—until the doorbell announced his guest’s arrival.

  “Afternoon.” Dominic’s bright smile as the door opened soon turned to an expression of concern. “You look awful.”

  “Thank you so much. You missed your calling in the diplomatic corps.”

  “Sor . . . Oh hell, if I can’t use that word, what am I supposed to say? ‘Many apologies for having overstepped the normal boundaries of decent conversation’?” Dominic grinned.

  “Come in, you bloody idiot.”

  “Do I still deserve a cup of tea? I’m parched.” Dominic dumped his bags in the hallwa
y.

  “I’m not sure you do, after that remark about how I look. I’ve been working hard to make myself presentable.” That was a lie, a flirtatious lie; Morgan felt strangely elated.

  “You don’t need to work at that. You’d be presentable at three o’clock in the morning, stumbling out of a club and into the gutter.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment, either.” Morgan rolled his eyes. “But I’ll take it.”

  “I seem to be talking myself out of that cup of tea.” Dominic hung his head in mock shame.

  “You are such a plonker.” Morgan ushered them into the kitchen, before busying himself with kettle and pot and all the paraphernalia. “Did you get anything to eat last night?”

  “Only in the hotel bar, but it was okay. Didn’t feel much like going out. How about you?”

  “I grabbed a snack at the hospital. Something out of the vending machine. I didn’t fancy eating at all, but Mum nagged me. Funny how she still worries about me not eating enough.”

  “That’s how mothers are. We’re always stick thin to them.” Dominic looked out of the window, clearly relishing the sea view. “So I owe you this meal. If you’re still up for it?”

  “Yes,” Morgan said, with more enthusiasm than he felt. The prospect of an intimate tête-à-tête in a restaurant with all the world and his wife at hand loomed up like an ordeal he didn’t want to undergo.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “Must you mind read? I’m feeling a bit tired and emotionally bruised, that’s all. Could do with some fresh air, as well. I can’t rid my nose of the hospital stink.”

  “Eau de carbolic?” Dominic blew out his cheeks. “You know that I’m always happy to get out. And not just to do my research—you’ve got to make the most of the seaside when you’re heading back to London.”

  “Been there, done that.” Morgan studied the contents of the pot; at last the tea was ready to pour. “Sea air it is, then. And any chance you’d settle for fish and chips or something equally mundane afterwards? To be eaten here where I could stagger to the couch and crash out at two minutes’ notice if the great tiredness descends? I appreciate it’s not the big meal out you must have had in mind.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m easily pleased.” Dominic blew on his tea, taking an appreciative sip. “Cracking cuppa. Want to see what I’ve turned up?”

  “If it’s maps and photos, then yes. No ship talk, though.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. Local geography of a strictly land-based nature, it is.”

  Soon the dining room table was covered with maps and old photos, some of them kept in place with the now-empty mugs, while Dominic’s laptop had been set up to display the pictures he’d taken over the last few days. Morgan had filled in a few of the gaps from the Capells’ collection residing in his sideboard, including a trove of picture postcards of local views which had been his father’s. The Devil’s Anvil and the Long Cove featured prominently, but those jagged rocks didn’t seem anywhere near as threatening seen in a four-by-six postcard.

  For a nerdy activity—something James would have sneered at—it was good fun. Morgan sighed. “I wish you could have met Dad. He’d have bent your ear for hours about local history. I’m not sure how much would have been relevant to your research, but it would have amused you.”

  “This is excellent background material, though. I’ve never seen these specimens before.” Dominic angled some of the older cards to the light to get a better view of them. “I’ve got plenty of the standard local ones, Padstow and St. Enodoc church and the rest of the tourist trail.”

  “Why not take some of the less common ones with you? As a memento of your visit.”

  “I couldn’t. Not if they were your dad’s.” The eager, yearning expression in Dominic’s eye gave the lie to his words.

  “Of course you could, you numpty. He had loads of them, doubles of most. There must be more boxes up in the loft. And he’d have preferred them to go to a genuine enthusiast rather than any old riffraff via the charity shop. That’s why I haven’t cleared them out.” Morgan chose a couple of the least dog-eared old postcards. “Here. Actually . . .” he scooped them all up, “have the lot. I’ve plenty of other pictures, and the sea views I can look at any day, out of the window.”

  “Are you sure?” Dominic beamed like a little boy at Christmas, fingers itching to get themselves on the goodies.

  “Absolutely. Do you want to see any of the other stuff he collected, or would that bore you rigid? The sideboard draw’s full of this, that, and the other. I have no idea exactly what he crammed in there.”

  “Bore me?” Dominic’s eyebrows shot up. “How could anything about Cornwall bore me?”

  Morgan resisted the temptation to say that pretty well everything about Cornwall had bored James. Why keep thinking about him now? Or at all? He had to come to terms with a James-less life and the sooner that happened, the better. “You may live to regret saying that, when we’re on the seven hundredth view of St. Enodoc church and golf course.”

  “If I yawn even the once you can whack me.”

  The day had passed into early evening by the time they got out for their walk, but it had kept the best of the sunshine for them. They parked in a private road, where a friend of Morgan’s allowed his pals a closer access than the grockles got.

  Morgan had always loved the view from the Long Cove, especially at times like this, when the setting sun slipped down the sky the other side of the headland and set the distant waters aflame with dancing light. He liked it when the flowing spring tide came dashing up the beach, crashing on the rocks and threatening to soak any poor souls who went too close to the water’s edge. But he loved it equally when the tide was on the ebb, leaving a broad expanse of sand and, if you knew where to seek them out, rock pools like he’d delighted in as a boy. Then he could walk along the strand for ages without seeing more than a handful of other souls, at the right time of year.

  He’d always hoped that James would have fallen in love with it too, but he’d preferred the busier, tamer sands at Rock and Newquay, with their accompanying restaurants, bars, and Kensington tractors. Surely Dominic would never show the same preference? Morgan now felt it vital that Dominic would genuinely like the places he liked and not pretend to be enthusiastic from politeness. They parked the car, got out, then took a deep breath of salt-spiked air.

  “This is my favourite part of the headland,” Dominic said, out of the blue, shading his eyes against the sunlight flickering on the waves. Was he always going to have a direct line to Morgan’s thoughts? “We used to walk along here for hours, one way up top on the path, then back the other way in the surf.”

  Morgan looked up and down the bay. “I can’t decide whether I like the surf or the rock pools best. I found my favourite shells here.”

  “Did you? I seem to remember all the shells I came across were right grotty specimens.” Dominic glanced sidelong at him. “Have you always been lucky?”

  “I wouldn’t ever describe myself as lucky.” When James had come along, Morgan had thought himself the most fortunate man in the world—how things changed.

  “That’s how it should be. Or else any hubris will surely lead to a fall. Better to be the way you are. I like it.” Dominic favoured Morgan with a smile, one of those devastating, unexpected smiles, then scrambled down the bank by where they’d parked and onto the path. Morgan, like a sprinter stuck in the blocks when he thought that someone else had false started, eventually followed him. They risked the sand—they could always shake out their shoes—walking slowly, watching the last of the holidaymakers, talking intermittently, enjoying the silences in between. Not one mention of ships or parents or ex-boyfriends, just the latest stories to have topped the local news, how the area still seemed, in places, stuck in the nineteen fifties, and a series of increasingly exaggerated boasts about their best beachcombing finds.

  Lost in conversation, they almost forgot to turn back, finally reaching the car as the light was on
the ebb.

  Dominic slapped his hands over his stomach. “Sorry for that noise, but no apologies for using the word under the circumstances. It wasn’t thunder. Stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  Morgan smiled. “Mine’s not far behind. I’m glad it’s chips on the menu; I’m so bleeding knackered I couldn’t face a restaurant wait.”

  “Chips sound like caviar to the intestines.”

  “If that’s supposed to be a clever joke on Hamlet, it failed.”

  The drive to the Salt and Battery fish and chip shop—the food was better than the cheesy name—didn’t take too long, which was as well given the accompaniment of stomach rumbles. They didn’t bother with taking them home and warming them through, consuming the gourmet treat with wooden forks straight from the paper. No Michelin-starred restaurant could have served them better. And no shared candlelit glances across the table could have made Morgan feel any gooier inside. The bumping of elbows over the gear stick had sent a tingle up his arm like a jellyfish’s sting.

  “These chips are spot on. Better than caviar as far as I’m concerned.” Dominic smacked his lips, clearly savouring a particularly crunchy piece of potato. “That’s overpriced and overrated.”

  “You’re preaching to the converted there.” Morgan shut his eyes to better enjoy the succulent piece of batter that always graced the end of a cod fillet. James would have turned his nose up at this—he liked his caviar, and anything else expensive and, preferably, out of season. The scales had just about totally dropped from Morgan’s eyes.

  “Why does anyone bother with posh restaurants when they can have this?” Dominic said, dreamily.

  “The only logical reason I can think of is that posh restaurants don’t stink your car out. I think I’ll need it fumigated to get rid of the reek of fat and vinegar.” The smell clung to everything, despite the fact they’d opened the windows as they ate.