Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  “Are you . . . Are you going to marry him?” That was what would have happened in one of Mother’s books. Bran liked to read them in secret—she might not mind, but Father certainly would. Tales of days long ago when men were strong and decisive, and duels were fought for honour. If a girl got in the family way, her father forced the man to marry her. Or her brothers did.

  Of course, in the books her brothers were always handily taller, stronger, and more numerous than the vile seducer and his cronies.

  “No. He’s going to marry someone else.” Bea said it with no emotion Bran could make out.

  “Then why was he doing that with you? And if you knew he was engaged, why did you—”

  “Because he didn’t tell me until afterwards!” Bea’s voice broke.

  Oh. Oh God. That bastard. Then another thought struck. “We should have him arrested. He was over eighteen, wasn’t he? And you were underage. He could go to jail.”

  “No. Don’t be an idiot. Everyone would find out about it then. And anyway, I told him I was seventeen. And yes, I know it was stupid of me. I know.” The hurt in her voice piercing the hot bubble of his anger, Bran sat next to his sister on the sofa. He wanted to give her a hug, but she’d never liked it much when he’d hugged her as a child, so he didn’t.

  “But . . . what are you even going to do with a baby?” he asked softly. “How will you finish school, go to university . . .” He trailed off. Would their parents raise it? It’d be just like having another Jory all over again, crying and breaking things and having to be minded when he had far better things to do.

  Bea rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to keep it. It’s going for adoption as soon as it’s born.”

  Oh. Well, that was probably best, wasn’t it? Bran couldn’t really see Father welcoming a dark-skinned little stranger into the family fold. Then he frowned as another thought occurred. “Why not just . . . you know. Get rid of it.”

  “No.” Bea snapped it out.

  “But—”

  “Don’t, all right? I’ve had all this with Mummy and Father.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I’m not going to run from my mistakes. It’s my own fault I’m in this situation, and I’m not going to just flush a baby down the toilet to get out of it.”

  Did she have to be so blunt about it? Still, Bran didn’t envy her those conversations one bit. “What does Father think?”

  “He didn’t like the idea at first, but he agrees now it’s the honourable thing to do. I’ll just have to study at home from now until it’s born, and then I can go back to school. We’ll say I had glandular fever.”

  Honourable. That was clever of her, getting Father to think of it in those terms.

  “What’s it like?” he asked after a moment.

  “What?”

  He gestured at her stomach, still veiled by her heavy sweater. “Being pregnant.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not like anything. It just is. And in four or five months, it won’t be.”

  Present Day

  Kirsty came to visit Bran in hospital later that afternoon. She brought with her not useless flowers, inane reading material, or fruit he had no appetite for, but something more useful: photographs of her emerging sculpture of Edward of Woodstock. Carved from a single, massive tree trunk, the statue would stand larger than life outside the exhibition centre. It would weather, yes, but it was designed to do so—Kirsty had spoken of her wish for it to be organic, subject to change.

  It was already far more impressive than Bran had dared to hope. “This is really good. It’s not your usual style,” he couldn’t help adding with a touch of accusation.

  She laughed. “You think I don’t know I only got the job because Gawen begged you to let me do it? I thought you’d appreciate something less abstract than the usual. And I’ve got a good model for him. He’s a rugged, outdoor sort, like a prince would have been in those days.” Kirsty rambled on about the young man, Euan Mayhew, whom Bran strongly suspected she was involved with romantically. She didn’t say, and he didn’t ask, a hangover from before she and Jory had divorced, back when they’d preserved between them the polite fiction that the marriage was more than just a device to legitimise Gawen’s birth.

  Bran had even less reason to pry now. But then again—“He must be spending a lot of time at your house. Does Gawen get on all right with him?”

  “Gawen doesn’t see a lot of him. Euan’s mostly around while Gawen’s at school. The light’s better then.” She gave Bran an arch look. “Jory’s met him, and they get on fine.”

  So stop worrying about Gawen. Bran tried to follow her unspoken advice. “When will you have the statue finished? It looks almost done.” In fact the finer detail of the face gave way to a rougher, more blurred outline as the eye moved down to the statue’s feet, but Bran was fairly sure that was intentional.

  “In plenty of time,” she said airily, then laughed again. “Gawen’s got his half-term holiday coming up, remember? So I won’t be working on it much then, but it should be ready a week or two after that. But how’s the exhibition itself going?”

  That was the question, and one that had been dogging his sleepless nights. Bran drew in a breath and was plunged into a coughing fit. Damn it.

  Sam woke up early on Sunday morning, unused to the light that shone directly in his face through the thin cotton curtains at his window. He lay in bed for a while, eyes closed against the brightness, listening for any signs of movement in the house. His stomach rumbled, but it’d be a poor way to repay Jory and Mal for their hospitality by waking them up clattering around their kitchen.

  It was weirdly comfortable, lying in this strange bed in a strange room. Not at all like waking up in his grotty room in Luton. Maybe it was just the early-summer sunshine, made warmer in tone by the ochre-yellow curtains, but the place seemed full of optimism.

  After ten minutes or so, Sam realised he could hear Jory and Mal moving about, but it wasn’t breakfast they were making. Feeling a melancholy pang of arousal, he got up quickly, used the bathroom, and headed downstairs. Luckily, helping out in the kitchen last night had given him a rough idea of where everything was. He made himself a plate of toast and a mug of instant coffee without too much trouble, and took them into the living room to eat in front of the telly.

  Sam’s spirits rose as he ate. This could be a fresh start for him in all kinds of ways. Jory and Mal had found each other here, right? Maybe he could find someone too. Someone who wasn’t closeted, or married, or both. He smiled ruefully at the telly. A bloke who wasn’t a lying, manipulative git would be a bit of a step up as well.

  Jory and Mal came downstairs as he was bunging his plate in the dishwasher.

  “You found everything all right?” Jory asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks. Coffee? I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tea for me, please,” Mal said, getting an enormous box of Corn Flakes out of the cupboard.

  It was all cosily domestic, and Sam almost didn’t feel like an interloper at all.

  “Got any plans for today?” he asked when they were all sitting down with freshly steaming mugs.

  Jory nodded. “I thought we could wander over to the castle, and I’ll introduce you to Jennifer. She’s, well, she’s pretty much the queen of Caerdu castle. She runs the place, coordinates the volunteers and so on. Very involved with the educational side, which is how I know her. She was helping out Meena—that’s your predecessor—with the exhibition, tying it in with the castle and the events they’ve got planned there, that sort of thing.”

  “Cheers. I don’t want to spoil your weekend, though.”

  Mal flashed him a smile. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ve got homework, anyhow.”

  “Mal’s doing an Open University degree. Arts and humanities.” Jory sounded so chuffed you’d have thought Mal was his kid, not his partner.

  “Yeah? Good for you, mate. Must be tough doing that and the museum job. How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good. Th
e studying, anyway. I’ve got my first-year exams in a few weeks.” Mal made a face. “It’s peak, man.”

  Sam struggled not to laugh at Mal’s expression. “Good luck.” Chances were he’d still be living here when they started. He made a mental note to be extra helpful around the house.

  “Cheers. Keep everything crossed for me, yeah?”

  “Not that you’ll need luck, with all the work you’ve put in.” Jory turned to Sam. “So if you’re ready, you and I could set off in half an hour or so?”

  “Sounds good.”

  May in Britain could mean anything, weather-wise, but it was a bright, warm morning as they set out for the castle. They were on foot, because Jory reckoned it was only half an hour’s walk or so. A year ago, Sam might have had his reservations about that or so, but if working at the restaurant had done nothing else for him, it’d got him more used to being on his feet. One thing he hadn’t missed about academia was the tragic effect on his fitness level.

  He suspected Jory wasn’t taking him the most direct route, either, as they headed straight down to the coast path. Not that he was complaining. He’d forgotten already, after a year back in Luton, how much he loved being out in the countryside. The breeze blowing in off the sea was fresh and clean, and his stride was longer, more confident. He felt taller here.

  The irony was, once you got out of town, Luton was surrounded by bloody countryside. He’d just been too overcome by inertia to reach it. As if his horizons had shrunk to the size of that depressing little room in the shared house.

  “Does Mal know about, uh . . . why I had to leave Edinburgh?” Sam asked, and held his breath, because it wasn’t Mal’s degree of knowledge that had really been worrying him.

  He’d just taken it for granted, when Jory had called him, that the bloke knew about him getting sacked and why. But ever since then, usually around 3 a.m. as he lay in bed listening to the sirens, he’d been getting these nasty little doubts. What if Jory hadn’t heard, and had offered Sam the job thinking he was, well, still a proper academic, reputation intact?

  “I . . . Yes. Sorry,” Jory said, staring at his feet like he was the one who had anything to be embarrassed about.

  “Oh. No, that’s . . . that’s good.” Sam gave an awkward shrug, hissing as he cricked his neck. “Don’t want to be here under false pretences.”

  Jory looked up quickly. “I wouldn’t go mentioning it to anyone—I mean, it won’t be an issue, but there’s no point making it one.”

  Now Sam was worried. “It won’t be a problem for you, will it? If it comes out?”

  Jory’s gaze darted away for a moment. “Oh, no. And I really do think you’re the best man for the job.”

  Stupid how Jory’s earnest tone affected him, had him turning his head into the wind to blink back tears, for God’s sake. But it was the first time anyone had had such confidence in him for over a year.

  The sea stretched out for miles in front of them, a perfect blue to match the sky. “Bloody hell, you live in a postcard. Or a holiday brochure.”

  Jory laughed. “It’s not bad here, is it? Bit of a change from Luton, I imagine.”

  Gulls screamed overhead, the familiar raucous cries making Sam smile. “It’s kind of like being back in Edinburgh.” Especially with Jory by his side.

  “Remember that time we walked up to Arthur’s Seat? It was a day just like this.”

  Sam remembered all right. “Yeah, until we got to the top. And then it started peeing down, and I slipped on a rock and ended up with a bruise on my arse the size of Holyrood Palace.”

  Jory laughed. “And you caught a cold. Doug wasn’t too pleased with me about that, was he?”

  Sam froze for an instant before he could catch himself, and hoped Jory wouldn’t notice.

  No such luck. Jory’s stride faltered. “Sorry. Don’t suppose you want to be talking about him.”

  “Not a lot, no.” Sam jammed his hands into his pockets and tried to lighten his tone. “Don’t worry about it. All my own fault. Still, learned my lesson there.”

  “Bit of a harsh one.”

  Sam gave a jerky shrug and cast around desperately for something else to talk about. “So what’s it been like for you, coming back here after Edinburgh? Good to be back nearer your kid again?”

  Jory just nodded, as if words couldn’t cut it, then looked awkward. “Were your family okay with you moving so far away again?”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t like I was living with them. Bit of an embarrassment, wasn’t I? The promising academic, reduced to restaurant dogsbody.” He said it lightly, but Christ, it still hurt. The look of disappointment on his mum’s face had been harder to bear than the sacking. She’d been so proud of him for getting his PhD, seeing his name in academic journals. And then getting home to find his room rented out . . .

  That wasn’t fair, though. She’d said she’d give the guy notice, and Sam could sleep on the sofa until then. It’d been Sam who hadn’t been able to face it. Hadn’t been able to live with the constant reminder of how he’d failed his family.

  “Maybe you could invite them down when the exhibition opens?” Jory suggested.

  That . . . wasn’t a bad idea. Sam’s spirits lifted. “Yeah, maybe. Hey, is that the castle I can see?” Daft question, really. The grey stone ruins stood on a promontory, jutting out into the sea like a sentry post, and the jagged remains of walls and chimney stacks pierced the clear blue sky.

  As they got closer, another building became visible, just landward of the castle. It was of modern design, with a low roof and huge plate glass windows.

  “And that’s where you’ll be working,” Jory said, as if it could be anything else.

  Scaffolding was still in place, but the exhibition centre looked well on schedule to be finished in time for the planned opening in mid-July. It also looked a lot more expensive than Sam had expected. He gave a low whistle. “Sure you want to be putting someone like me in charge of all that?” He laughed to show he was joking.

  He wasn’t joking.

  Jory didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he was just being polite. “Nice, isn’t it? There are going to be heraldic pennants out front, and Kirs—a local artist is doing a sculpture of the Black Prince.”

  “I was expecting like a couple of ship’s containers tarted up a bit,” Sam confessed. “Did someone win the lottery?”

  “Pretty much. Apparently getting funding for these things is an art in itself. Although a great deal of the money was put up by local businesses.”

  “Trying to put Porthkennack on the map?”

  Jory frowned. “Well, I think it’s on the map already, but raise its profile, yes, absolutely.”

  Oops. Sam should have remembered he was talking to a local lad. “Uh, yeah, I guess most of the economy round here runs on tourists?”

  “That and fishing. Employment prospects are limited for young people who want to stay in Porthkennack, I’m afraid.”

  “So going into the family business might not be such a bad thing for your boy?”

  “Yes . . . Although I do wonder if it’s really right for Gawen.” Jory shrugged awkwardly. “He’s quite sensitive, and, well, Bran has had to make some tough decisions for commercial reasons. Decisions that haven’t made him popular.”

  “Is that why Mal doesn’t like him? Bran, I mean.”

  Jory sort of hunched in on himself. “Not exactly. It’s to do with a friend of his. His best friend. He’s, well, we’re related, although I’ve only known him a couple of years. And Bran wasn’t terribly welcoming when he came to find us.”

  Came to find them? “Uh, wrong side of the blanket job, was it?”

  Jory nodded.

  Bloody hell. By the sound of it, having a kid on the sly was a bit of a family thing for the Roscarrocks. Sam wondered who the poor lad’s dad was—Bran himself? Jory’s dad? It didn’t seem polite to ask. If Jory had wanted him to know, he’d have said, wouldn’t he?

  “But he came round in the end?” Christ, Sam hoped so.
Family was family, however it was made up.

  “Well . . . Oh look, here’s Jennifer.”

  Yeah, Sam was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining how glad Jory was to change the subject. A woman in late middle age, her long grey hair blowing around her face, was striding up to them across the grass with a rolling gait, as if she’d just stepped off a ship and hadn’t got her land legs yet.

  As they met, she stretched out her hand with a smile. “Dr. Ferreira, I presume? I’m Jennifer Solomon.”

  “Hi, yeah, but call me Sam.”

  “Jennifer, then. Not Jenny, please. Makes me feel like I date from the industrial revolution, and as I keep telling our visiting school parties, I’m not quite that old. Jory, how are you? And how’s that boy of yours?”

  “We’re fine, both of us. How’s your hip?”

  “Buggered as ever. Excuse my French,” she added to Sam with a roguish look.

  “Medieval Latin, innit?” he said innocently.

  She snorted. “I like a chap who knows his etymology. You know, I’ve wanted to do an exhibit on that for years. The Anglo-Saxons Didn’t, Actually, Have a Word for It, or some such. The schoolkids would love it. Just can’t think of how to tie it into the castle. Or get it past certain people,” she added with a significant look at Jory.

  Odd, because Sam couldn’t remember Jory being particularly anti-swearing before. Course, he was a high school teacher now. He wouldn’t want his pupils to be encouraged to go effing and blinding at him any more than they probably did already.

  “Maybe we could sneak it into the Black Prince exhibition? Speculate on what all those English archers might have been shouting at the enemy on the battlefields of France? And hey, we could tie it in to that myth about the origins of the V sign.”

  Jennifer raised a bushy eyebrow. “‘Myth’? That’s controversial talk, you know.”

  “No, it’s not. Nobody even suggested that’s how it happened until the twentieth century—there isn’t a scrap of evidence anyone actually made that gesture until then. The only contemporary account that even mentions fingers—”