One Under

by JL Merrow

  “I needed something to distract me, all those months I was just . . . waiting. It wasn’t like I could go to school. So I looked up her history. Mummy helped. We sorted through old family letters we found in the attic, and went over parish records. It was something we could do together that wasn’t too tiring. Although she did seem better that year. For a while.”

  Jory had a sudden, vivid image of his sister, visibly pregnant, being kept out of everyone’s sight. Locked up in the house like a mad wife in the attic.

  It almost, but not quite, banished the sour taste of jealousy that she and their mother had been so close.

  “Why Mary? Why not, say, the first Sir John? He sailed with Sir Francis Drake, after all. Or the Jacobite one? I’d have thought they’d have been easier to research—more fully documented, at any rate—if you wanted to fill in some family history.”

  Bea made an impatient noise, taking him right back to his childhood. She didn’t often do that now she was grown-up. “I thought she was like me, don’t you see?”

  “Like you how?”

  “Think about it. She was cast out by the family. What did young ladies get disowned for in those days, if not for sexual misconduct?”

  “So you assumed she got pregnant? By someone unsuitable?”

  She nodded. “A fisherman, I thought. Or someone who worked for the family. Someone poor.”

  “Was that what happened? Or didn’t you manage to find out?”

  “I was wrong. She didn’t have a child out of wedlock, and there was no unsuitable young man from the village.” She almost laughed, then, but it had a bitter sound. “She was the unsuitable young man. At least as far as I can find out. It’s only circumstantial, of course, but there’s a fragment of a letter from her sister, Anne, to her husband, which talks of ‘my younger brother, the one I’m not to speak of.’ But she didn’t have a younger brother, not according to parish records. And there’s other evidence in the letter that suggests it was Mary she was referring to.”

  “So . . . Mary was trans?” Jory was still reeling from the idea of Bea searching for a relative with whom she could feel a kindred spirit. Was it possible he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t quite felt at home in their odd, amputated little family?

  Bea shrugged. “What does it matter, at this distance? Maybe she was just a butch dyke.” The words sounded ugly coming from her, but although they made him uncomfortable, Jory wasn’t convinced she’d meant them to. “At any rate, she was nothing like me.” She picked up her glass of water and took a sip, as if to wash away a bad taste.

  Poor Bea. “I wish you’d told me,” he blurted out.

  “About Mary Roscarrock? Why should you care?”

  “No. About you. About the baby.”

  “You were a child.”

  “I grew out of it. And then I had Gawen . . .” Jory hesitated, then put a hand on her arm. She frowned at it oddly, but didn’t shake it off, which was something. “It must have been hard for you. Another baby in the family.”

  Bea looked down at her hands, clasped awkwardly in her lap. “We never liked you, you know. Bran and I.”

  Jory felt as if she’d slapped him.

  She didn’t seem to notice. “When you were born . . . even before then, Mummy was tired all the time, and she used to say it would get better after the baby was born, and it never did. We didn’t know it was because she was ill. We thought it was just you.” She paused, and when she spoke again, it was in a low murmur, as if she was talking more to herself than to him. “She was always telling us to play with you so she could get some rest, but you were too young to play properly, and you cried all the time, and it was never any fun. I never liked playing with babies, not even pretend.” Finally, she looked at him. “You must have thought I was a horrible big sister.”

  “I . . .” Jory shook his head, still floored by her uncomfortable honesty. He’d always known they’d disliked him, in that sense that one knows something deep inside without being able to explain why. But he’d never expected her to come out and say it. He felt a strange mix of nausea and vindication—and, absurdly, gratitude that she’d admitted it at last.

  Equally absurdly, he felt the need to reassure her that it didn’t matter—but he didn’t know what to say. I hated Bran more than I hated you might not actually be a comfort. “It was a long time ago, and we’re different people now.”

  “I know I am.”

  Jory realised to his shock that she was crying. “Bea?”

  “I never wanted children. I knew that from the moment you were born. No, longer. But then I got pregnant . . . You’ve got no idea what it’s like to give up a child. A baby. One you’ve carried in your womb for nine months.”

  Jory frowned. “That’s not fair. After Gawen was born, I had to go back to college and hardly saw him for months on end. You know that. You and Bran insisted on it.”

  “That doesn’t even compare. Someone handed you a baby and told you it was yours and you learned to love it. I felt that child kicking. He was real to me for months before he was born. Have you any idea what it was like to give him away the very day I saw him for the first time?”

  “Then why—”

  “Because it was the right thing to do. Christ, you have no idea, do you? It hurt, Jory. Like giving birth, only worse. God, how much worse. Like part of me was being ripped away. You know what happens to a woman’s body when she gives birth? It turns into a boiling fog of hormones, all designed to make her suffer if she loses her child. I made up my mind then, I was never going to feel like that again. Never going to let myself be hurt so badly.”

  “Dev’s a grown man now,” Jory said softly, his heart aching for her. All these years he’d thought her cold and in control.

  He’d been right, perhaps—but she’d got there the hard way.

  “Yes. He is. I’m never going to get my baby back.”

  “But you could—”

  “No. It’s too late. He doesn’t need me now, so why should he want me? Beyond curiosity’s sake. Or for money, maybe. You think we’d all be one big happy family for ever and ever? It doesn’t work like that. It never did, even when it was just you and me and Bran and Mummy and Father. He’d take what he wanted from us, and all I’d get would be to lose my child all over again. I can’t let him in. I can’t.”

  She stood up. “Thank you for the meal. It was very nice. Please don’t . . . don’t do anything misguided. I don’t want any more contact with Devan Thompson.”

  Jory watched her leave the room, knowing that the next time he saw her she’d be calm, composed, perfect Bea once more.

  Apparently he’d missed out on that gene.

  What the hell was he doing, living here with Bea and Bran? This wasn’t a happy house. It would never be a happy house—not for him, and quite possibly not for them. Not that anyone’s likely to be able to tell one way or another, he thought bitterly.

  Jory needed to get out. Stop taking the easy path and get his own place. Find his own happiness.

  Suddenly, he missed Mal so much it hurt. But he couldn’t have Mal right now.

  He couldn’t stay here, either, though. Jory glanced at his watch. A little after nine. It wasn’t all that late. Gawen wouldn’t have gone to bed yet, and Kirsty never minded people turning up unexpectedly.

  Yes. He’d go and see them.

  Kirsty was always good for an alternative perspective on things.

  Mal found the days after his total fuckup with Jory a bit weird. Tasha took some time off from the pub, even sweet-talking Jago into getting a temp to cover her, seeing as Mrs. Jago, who’d normally help out, was off on a coach trip with the girls.

  Mal had met the girls, briefly, when he’d first come down here, a bunch of ladies around retirement age who’d done their bit and were damn well going to enjoy themselves now. He didn’t envy the coach driver his job trying to keep them in line.

  He felt bad, putting everyone out like that, but on the other hand, Tasha deserved a bit of time off and it w
as nice doing stuff together, like going to the beach and having windsurfing lessons. Okay, one windsurfing lesson. They were both too totally crap at it to bother carrying on, but at least they had a laugh trying. It was all right, but . . . truth was, they were both missing other people, weren’t they? And Tash, bless her, couldn’t seem to stop treating him like he was gonna break.

  She asked him about Jory, one afternoon as they were sitting out on the prom eating ice creams. “So what really happened with you and Dev’s uncle?”

  “Thought we’d covered that. We did the dirty. End of.” Mal took a bite of his flake.

  “And then what? He told you to piss off cos he’d had what he wanted?”

  “No. Fuck, no.” He hung his head. “It was me, wasn’t it? Jory started going on about taking me to meet his family and all that and . . . it was only s’posed to be a bit of fun, you know?”

  “So you’re the one who legged it? Babe, I thought you liked him. All that going on about him being a decent bloke and all.”

  “I do like him. But I just . . .” Mal stood up, walked a couple of paces, then turned round. “I just can’t, okay?”

  “Can’t what?”

  Like him. “Be with him. Get involved with him.”

  “Why not? I mean, shit, babe, maybe shagging him was a dick-brained move but once you’d had him, you might as well of stuck with him, right? I know you were worried about fucking things up for Dev, but I don’t see how this is supposed to be better.”

  She didn’t get it. “It ain’t just about Dev.”

  “So what is it about?”

  “It’s complicated. Look, eat your fucking ice cream before it melts, will you?” He frowned. “Oi, should you be having that? It’s got sugar in, innit?”

  “What are you, the diabetes police? Relax, babe. I got it.” She patted her little backpack with the skulls on, so presumably she had all her needles and stuff with her.

  “You gonna need to shoot up? Or, like, stab your finger and bleed on stuff? You’re gonna wait till I’ve finished, aintcha? I got raspberry sauce on this.”

  Tasha laughed. “God, you’re such a wuss. Bloody good thing you ain’t in charge of no one’s blood sugar.”

  Too soon, Tasha had to get back to work and Mal found himself on his own for the day. Although he wouldn’t miss the mother-henning. Much. He got up late, then wandered down into town to see what he could grab for brunch.

  There was a craft fair or market or whatever on the prom today. Tables were set out in a long line, offering all kinds of stuff ranging from cheap shell jewellery to hand-knitted designer sweaters with a price tag so high they ought to throw the rest of the sheep in for free.

  Mal ambled on over, cos he quite liked artsy-fartsy stuff, and mooched down the line to a table with driftwood sculptures. His interest pricked up. They were all of sea creatures, some real and some mystical, including one of a mermaid he reckoned Jory would love. It wasn’t a cutesy Disney one, or an excuse to show a pair of knockers—not that Mal had a problem with knockers, mind, but he had a feeling they weren’t Jory’s favourite thing ever. This mermaid was slim and feral looking, not some twee doll or pumped-up Page 3 stunner with a tail tacked on. She was more like the sort who’d lure sailors onto the rocks and then eat them with her sharp little teeth. He couldn’t resist running his hand along her tail, with its intricate carved scales. Squamous, that was the word for it. He’d read that somewhere. The wood was warm to the touch, and smoother than he’d expected.

  “Oh, hello. Fancy meeting you here.”

  Mal glanced up and blinked. Shit—it was Jory’s missus. Funny to think he’d shagged her husband. Still, he wasn’t going to be doing that again. And that was two things they had in common. He gave her a smile. “Kirsty, right? These are dead good. They by a local artist, or are they shipped in from China?”

  “You’re cynical in your old age, aren’t you, love? All made locally by my own fair hands, I’ll have you know.” She handed him a business card that said Kirsty Fisher—Art from the sea.

  “You’re shitting me. Seriously? These are like epic.”

  The prices were pretty epic and all, but then Mal didn’t have the first clue what the going rate was for driftwood art cos, well, it wasn’t like you were paying for the cost of materials, was it? He gave the mermaid a last little stroke in farewell.

  Kirsty raised an eyebrow. “Like her, do you? I wouldn’t have thought you were the sort to go for mermaids.”

  Mal grinned. “Mermaids, mermen . . . I’m an equal-opportunities patron of the arts, I am.”

  “Oh yeah? I’ll let you into a secret, then. This is one of my favourites.” She picked up a sculpture from the back of the table and held it up. “Like him? I call him AC/DC, cos he’s an electric eel. Go on, have a feel. And no, I don’t say that to all the boys.”

  The sculpture was amazing—a snaky S curve of glossy, rich wood mounted on a simple stand. Somehow the eel managed to look like it was alive, and moving, even, swimming through the sea with a flick of its muscular tail. Mal reached out a hand. If he’d thought the mermaid’s scales were smooth, this was like touching moonlight. Mal stroked it a few times. It was weirdly satisfying.

  “Enjoying that, are you?” Kirsty asked.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t all that weird. “Too right. I’d be tempted to take him home, but I bet he’s out of my price range.”

  “Oh, he’s not for sale. Who’d I have to keep me company on lonely nights if he went? I could do you a deal on the mermaid, though.”

  “What kind of a deal?”

  “Hmm . . . call her half price, as long as you keep it to yourself. Don’t want everyone and his dog thinking I’m an easy touch.”

  She was still fairly pricey . . . but sod it, what else was he going to spend his money on down here? And maybe he’d give her to Jory to remember him by.

  Or maybe he’d keep her to remind him of Jory. Mal got out his wallet. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Lovely. Let me wrap her up for you.” She reached down below the table, bringing out bubble wrap and tape, then sat down on the folding chair with the mermaid on her lap.

  “How long have you been doing this?” Mal asked as he counted out notes.

  “Since I came down to Cornwall, pretty much.”

  “Yeah, I thought you weren’t from here. Where are you from originally?”

  “Oh, here and there. Mostly there.” She bit off a piece of tape and stuck it down on a neat parcel. “You’re a London lad, by the sound of you.”

  “Yeah, South London. Balham.”

  “Staying long?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Depends on a certain young Cornishman, does it?”

  “What, Jory?” It felt funny to think of him as a Cornishman—he didn’t speak like a local, and from what he’d said, he’d spent most of his time out of the county—but he was, wasn’t he? “Nah. That’s not . . . It’s work stuff. I’m helping out at the Sea Bell at the mo. The barmaid there’s me mate’s little sister.”

  “I don’t get a lot of chance to go to pubs these days.” Kirsty sounded sad about it.

  “No? I’d have thought blokes’d be queuing up to take you out. Why don’t you come round some evening? You can buy me a drink to make up for that hard bargain you kept me to on Ariel here.” He gave her a sly wink at the last bit. A middle-aged couple had dawdled over to browse and from the watch on the bloke’s wrist they were well minted. Mal didn’t have a problem with helping out the redistribution of wealth in society, and Kirsty probably deserved it more than they did.

  She had dimples when she really smiled. “I’ve a good mind to take her back if you’re going to call her that. Her name’s Zennor, if you want to know. No, I don’t like to leave Gawen on his own in the evenings. But you could come round to mine if you like. We could open a bottle of cider. Tell you what, come round about seven and I’ll even throw in dinner. Feel free to touch if you want,” she added to Mrs. Minted, who was clearly impressed with a
leaping dolphin that looked a bit phallic to Mal’s mind.

  Was it a good idea, going for dinner with Jory’s wife? Mal was supposed to be keeping out of his way until they’d both cooled down a bit. “Just you, me, and the kid, right?”

  Okay, maybe he was curious to see how Jory’s son had turned out.

  “You can bring Jory if you want,” Kirsty said, like she was testing him.

  “Nah. That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “No? All the more for us, then. So, it’s settled? Tonight? Or do you have to work?”

  He didn’t have to work any night. And it wasn’t like it was folk night at the Sea Bell, when it could get a bit busy. They’d manage fine without him. “Yeah, tonight’s good.”

  “Let me write down the address. I could do you a deal on that one,” she added to the punters as she scribbled. “Ten percent off, seeing as I know he’ll be going to a good home. If you promise to keep it to yourself. I wouldn’t want everyone expecting a discount.”

  “Does he have a name?” Mrs. Minted asked, already getting out her purse.

  “He’s Bufeo.”

  “Boo . . . Could you write that down for me?”

  Kirsty scribbled the name on a business card. “You look him up online when you get him home. I think you’ll like his story.”

  “What was that all about?” Mal asked when they’d gone off, smiling, with their own bubble-wrapped package.

  “Bufeo Colorado. He’s a pink river dolphin from the Amazon Rainforest who turns into a handsome man at night and goes on the prowl for love.”

  Mal laughed. “Now I’m wishing I’d bought him instead of Zen here.” He patted the parcel under his arm.

  “Keep it down. You’ll hurt her feelings, poor thing. And he wouldn’t have done you any good anyway. Bufeo only seduces women.”

  “That’s sexist, that is. And, like, why’s he want to cut out half the population like that? Total waste if you ask me.”

  “But if you know what you like, why not go for it? I’ll see you tonight, Mal. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”