Morgan turned the letter in his hands. Pointless bloody exercise, really; whichever way up it was, the thing would read the same.
“It isn’t you, Morgan, it’s me.”
Trust James to have ended things with a cliché. Maybe he’d typed Dear John letters into Google, cut and pasted what he’d found, changed the name John for the name Morgan and copied out the resulting text longhand.
“It’s been great, all of it, but people change. We’ve grown, and not in the same direction.”
The James he’d spent so long with wouldn’t have been able to create such eloquent prose, not without his secretary taking his rough notes to make them into something impressive, as she’d done for him in the past. Please God she hadn’t been allowed anywhere near this.
A simple, I’m bored with you so I’m buggering off, would have been more in James’s line. Or, You’re no longer the spring chicken who caught my eye. I couldn’t be seen going out with a bloke about to hit thirty. Not good for the image.
Morgan had always suspected James kept half an eye on whether there was anything better about. Like a pet cat, seemingly devoted to its owner, but ready to push off and relocate if he found a better household. Morgan’s family had once had a moggy like that; he hadn’t thought he’d end up with a boyfriend who’d show the same proclivities.
“I won’t insult you by asking if we can remain friends, although I hope someday we can be civil enough to share a pint. For old times’ sake.”
So that he could tell Morgan about his latest bloke? Like he used to talk about Jonny and say he’d only been a practice run for the real thing? Morgan slapped the letter on the table. He wasn’t ready to be civil. Especially after three years of James hinting that the real thing might be him. That had been a load of crap, hadn’t it? Like all the other crap James had been spouting these last few months. Why had it taken Morgan so long to realise he’d been strung along?
It wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting the letter, or something like it, but those cold, hard words still hurt like a kick in the guts. All right, it was better than being dumped by text message—or over Facebook, that treacherous change in status from in a relationship to single—but only just. Why couldn’t the bastard have had the guts to drive down to Cornwall and tell him face-to-face?
Because, truth be told, James was a coward, a man who’d do anything to avoid a scene or put off a confrontation. Getting somebody else to travel down and deliver the bad news would have suited his style, if he could have got away with it.
Morgan screwed the letter up, flung it into the dustbin, and resolved never to think of James Price again. Or at least not for the next ten minutes.
That was all the time it took to make a decent, mud-strong mug of tea and take it out to the garden. If he could survive the next ten minutes without thinking of James the bastard, then he could survive another ten and then another. Like giving up smoking, one cigarette at a time. What he needed was distraction, either general or particular. At least his garden still brought him the happiness that had been sorely absent from his life the last year. He sat on his favourite wooden bench, took a deep breath and half closed his eyes.
Late April was turning out lovely, an early burst of summer in full swing, and the garden of Cadoc, his house, formed the sort of sun trap which became almost unbearable on a hot August day but which proved perfect when spring or autumn turned kind. Morgan listened to the bees, watched the trees and the flowers, and tried not to think of all the times in the past he’d sat here with James.
Count your blessings right now before you go mad.
Blessing one, living in London, the thick air and continual noise, was behind him. Blessing two, working from home and being able to nip out here for the perfect way of clearing his mind, letting his stress dissolve away into the calm sea air.
Only, at the moment, Morgan would have been pleased to be head down in a noisy office, with sights and sounds and externally imposed deadlines to take his mind off that bloody letter and the fact that his life seemed to be falling apart piece by piece. He swatted at a late-flowering tulip with his foot, cursing it for sticking its handsome head up and mocking him with its joie de vivre.
Sod tulips, sod the sunshine and sod James Price.
Morgan swigged back his tea. Right. Life was going to go on, irrespective of how many flowers he kicked the heads off, and if he sat down and thought about things objectively, it might go on a lot more enjoyably without James. In the long run. One day he’d look back at this event as being constructive, despite it hurting like stink now.
Why not count the points in favour of a clean break? Surely there had to be some?
James was a control freak—if things weren’t going as he wanted them to, then they were wrong. His sense of humour had changed, so he only seemed to enjoy jokes at other people’s expense. Morgan had always managed to ignore the roving eye, pretending it was nothing different to admiring the delicacies on the Waitrose cake counter. It didn’t mean you were going to indulge, did it? Except that James had quite possibly been sampling every cake in the box on the sly. It would have been typical of the bastard, and he’d have covered his tracks in the process.
We never did have any realistic future, did we?
Morgan blew out his cheeks—wasn’t this process supposed to be making him feel better? The voice in his head was right, though. Even if they’d got as far as tying the knot, James might have managed to find a dozen ways to slip through it. And that wasn’t what Morgan had wanted, no matter how he’d tried to persuade himself that he’d be the one to make a difference, the Mr. Right who’d keep James on the straight and narrow.
Reason said that he should be pleased to have got the letter, to be shot of James and shot of uncertainty all at once. But all his objective reasoning couldn’t logic away such a ball of pain in his stomach.
The sudden, insistent bleating of the telephone started Morgan out of his remembrances of times past, pleasant and obnoxious. It would be a client, probably, wanting a quote over the phone for a particularly intricate design contract. That would be a good distraction. Not that he was short of work—there was plenty to tide him over—but some kind of project to really stretch his brains would keep his mind off painful things.
“Cadoc Design. Hello?” Morgan’s practiced tones managed to sound both welcoming and businesslike, or so he’d been informed when it had been a friend rather than a client at the other end of the line.
“Oh, sorry. Think I’ve got the wrong number.”
“Not to worry, it’s—” Morgan didn’t have the chance to finish, the abrupt tones of the dialling code signalling that the phone at the other end had been put down. Wrong number? He couldn’t remember the last one of those he’d had, not since the time he’d been plagued with calls to his mobile by someone who’d been convinced he was a pizza delivery service. Not worth ringing 1471 if it was a genuine mistake. He’d got as far as the kitchen, looking to wrest another mug of tea out of the pot, when the phone went again, and he turned on his heels to answer it again.
“Cadoc Design. Hello?” He felt less friendly this time.
“Sorry, it’s me again.” That was obvious from the same dithering voice. “I definitely haven’t misdialled, so either I’ve been given the wrong number in the first place or you’re Morgan Capell.”
“You haven’t and I am.” He’d ditched the polite edge completely. Who could be ringing him out of the blue and what did he want if he wasn’t a customer? If the idiot was trying to sell Morgan his wares, all he’d get was an earful of abuse; cold calls were the bane of everyone’s life, and on a day like today, he had no patience left.
“Right. Sorry to be so useless. I’m dreadful on the phone.”
He could say that again. At least whoever this was came across too awkwardly to be a salesman—no suggestion of smooth talking, and too long a pause in the conversation. Morgan took a deep breath. “I have no idea who you are, but I assume there’s something you want to talk about that isn’t to do with web design?”
“Yes. The wreck of the Troilus.”
“Oh.” Morgan felt his tongue tie itself in knots, as it always did when that particular ship got mentioned. What did this guy want to know about her? And how could he both have got Morgan’s number and known Morgan would have a tale to tell?
“I suppose you want to know how I got hold of you?” The voice on the phone sounded more apologetic than ever. Telepathic, with it.
“That might be a good place to start.”
“Your friend James gave me it.”
“Oh.” Double oh with fucking knobs on. So, not only had James the bastard left him high and dry, he was giving people Morgan’s number at random so they could ring about matters intensely personal? How many years would Morgan get for wringing his ex-boyfriend’s neck, and would they be worth it? “What did he tell you?”
“Only that the ship went down near where you live. I’m trying to research the history of her midshipmen, the ones who got transferred elsewhere before she sank and the unlucky ones who went on the rocks with her.” The voice was gaining in confidence, clearly on a pet subject. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Dominic. Dominic Watson.”
Morgan wasn’t sure what to say next, as the introduction the other way had already been done and without his consent. “What is it you want to know? I can’t tell you anything about the ship’s officers.” The prickles of unease that had appeared on Morgan’s neck wouldn’t go away. The Troilus. He hadn’t thought of her in weeks.
“I wasn’t expecting that you could.” Dominic sounded as if he was used to being unlucky. “My request’s a bit different. James said that you’ve got several of the ship’s timbers in your house?”
“Yes, that’s right. The locals made the most of what they could find washed up—there was enough to put some roof timbers in here.” Impressive ones, too. You could still see the stepping of the mast in one place, but Morgan wasn’t going to mention that at the moment. Wouldn’t do to get this Dominic bloke too excited and have him threatening to get straight in the car, camera in hand. There were other reasons, as well, why Morgan didn’t want to raise the issue of this particular ship and not even James had been aware of all of them.
“Wow.” Dominic seemed really impressed, nonetheless. “I tried to find some pictures on the internet, but all I get is the old engraving of the wreck and a diagram of the ship’s lines. Nothing about your house.”
“That would be right. I’ve never posted any pictures of the beams, and my parents wouldn’t have dreamed of anything like that.” They’d been highly protective of their little bit of history, when Dad had still been alive and Mum had been compos mentis enough to care. They’d have hated to end up as part of the tourist trail. “It’s a private property. I don’t give guided tours.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude.” That last remark had been a step too far; the thought of his mother when she’d been well had brought the old anger to the surface. Dear God, it had been over a year since she went into the nursing home—was he never going to get used to it? “I just want to be sure you’re doing a proper study and not indulging in a Hornblower fandom fest.”
“Mr. Capell, I can assure you that I’m involved in family research.” Dominic’s voice sounded cold and suddenly very clipped. “Our history is connected to that ship, and there have been too many half-truths told that I’d like to put straight.”
Morgan swallowed hard, guilt making him inclined to generosity. “My apologies. Look, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot here. Your call caught me unawares. I’m not used to people wanting to come and gawp at the cottage.”
“No, you don’t need to apologise. I shouldn’t have barged in like that. James told me that it wasn’t a well-known thing about the beams and that the family were rather protective of their architectural inheritance.” Dominic sighed. “Maybe he didn’t realise how serious I am about the subject.”
“He was probably showing off.” That was James to a tee. Morgan wondered whether Dominic was gay and any (or all) of young, handsome, and available. It would explain why the rat had suddenly decided to start revealing Cadoc’s secrets. “Write me a letter, Mr. Watson.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re serious, write me a letter. Explain exactly what you’re researching and what you’d hope to gain by coming to see the timbers.” Morgan felt empowered, as though this would somehow help get revenge on James for his blabbing. “I can’t stop you coming down here and visiting the wreck site—anyone can take the path to Gull Point to get a view of the Devil’s Anvil—but if you want to get in here, you’ll have to persuade me.”
“You’re on.” Dominic chuckled, maybe at the geography lesson, because anyone could find out about the cliff path by consulting a decent local map, especially somebody so avid. “Can you give me your full address?”
“No. That can be your first job. You’ve got my name and phone number and anything else James handed over. Get on the internet and find out the rest. If that defeats you, then you’re no bloody use as a researcher.” Morgan grinned.
“Actually, he didn’t give me anything else. Name of your house, road, nothing.” Dominic didn’t sound too perturbed. “But I’ll take up the challenge. That letter will be with you by the end of the week. Thanks.”
“No problem—” The click at the end of the line cut off Morgan midsentence. He considered the empty mug in his hand—he’d never got that top up—and shook his head. What the hell had all that been about? And what was he going to do if a letter actually came?
A letter arrived two days later, an elegant white envelope clattering through the letterbox alongside a charity catalogue, a bill, and an advert from the bank.
Mr. M Capell
Cadoc
Headland Road
Porthkennack
PL28 7RY
The postcode wasn’t quite right, but it was close enough, although the postmark was so smudged it could have come from Outer Mongolia. Probably a circular, although it was unusual to get a handwritten one, and who the hell was writing to him with what appeared to be a genuine fountain pen?
James had always complained about Morgan’s habit of leaving the most interesting letters until last and making a song and dance about trying to work out who had sent them. He’d have ripped the thing open and put everyone out of their misery.
You bloody idiot. How could Morgan be so dumb? This had to be from . . . what was his name? Derek? Dominic? Dominic.
The memory stopped him in his tracks, all inclination to open the thing suddenly gone. Morgan had never supposed the bloke was going to follow up his interest in the wreck of the Troilus. He debated screwing up the whole lot, letter and envelope and all, sticking it in the bin, and forgetting about it, but that wasn’t really an option anymore, was it? He’d asked Dominic to do the research and since Dominic had come up with the goods, then he had to do his part of the bargain and at least give him a chance.
He looked at the address again, wondering how easy it had been to find him. Maybe Dominic had bypassed the research stage and gone straight to James? Morgan hoped that wasn’t the case; the sooner he could get any vestige of that miserable bastard out of his life, the better. Probably the fact he’d answered that original phone call with the name of his business had made the challenge too easy.
He bit the bullet, took out the letter, and read.
Dear Mr. Capell,
I’m assuming my search for an address has led me to the right place, although you never can be sure with the internet. If it hasn’t, and some kind soul hasn’t realised my mistake and passed this on, I suppose you’ll never know.
Despite the sick feeling in his stomach, Morgan grinned. Dominic seemed to have fallen straight out of a BBC sitcom, with his self-deprecation, apologetic tone, and unusual turn of phrase. Morgan put the letter down and poured a coffee; if this was a torture to be endured, then it should be as comfortable a torture as possible.
I studied history at Durham and now, for my sins, I’ve converted to accountancy. A sensible career choice for someone who wants to have plenty of resources, not the least of them time, to pursue his hobby. By which I mean nautical research, specifically related to my family. I’m not certain how to convince you of my authenticity on that point, as I’ve yet to have anything published, although I enclose a copy (of a copy!) of part of Troilus’s muster from 1793, the year before she sank. This is the nearest to “papers” I can produce.
This time Morgan laughed aloud. Surely Dominic wasn’t this formal in person? Rather than the ripped bloke he’d visualised James trying to impress, he now pictured a bespectacled, bookish guy in clothes that had gone out of fashion ten years previously, waving his hands about as he spoke.
I hope that you’ll treat my request seriously. I don’t want to come and gawp at your house, like a photographer for the tabloids. My intention would simply be to take photos of the beams. (Do they have any carpenters’ marks like the ones at Chesapeake Mill? In that case I’d like to take the equivalent of a brass rubbing, if that’s convenient.)
However unpleasant this might prove, Morgan felt duty bound to invite Dominic over. Had his mum still been well enough to advise him, she’d have insisted there were no reasonable grounds for refusal. He resumed reading.
I’ll be investigating the Porthkennack area, obviously; I believe there are some sailors’ graves in a local churchyard. It seems the locals did better than the inhabitants of the Scilly Isles did by Cloudesley Shovell. Still, I suppose the Cornish have always been on the respectable side.
Morgan snorted with laughter. Respectable? Dominic must have had his tongue stuffed well and truly in his cheek. Why not indulge him? Why not have a “be kind to a nerd day”?
“You never used to be so cruel.” His mother’s remembered voice resounded in his mind with one of the last things she’d said to him before she’d moved into the home. “Not before you took up with James.”
And she’d been right, although he’d not admitted that until now; he used to be a better man than this. He returned to the letter with a kinder eye. I’d like to take pictures of the surrounding area; if you have any specialised knowledge of the local wrecks, or could refer me to anyone who does, I’d be extremely grateful. There is a family connection to all this, as I said, but I’d rather explain that face-to-face.
Now, have I passed your test? If the answer is yes, please write to me at the address given above. If not, I shall still visit the area, but I promise not to come and make a nuisance of myself.
Yours sincerely,
Dominic Watson
Morgan had to read the letter again, for amusement. Even if Dominic hadn’t satisfied him with his obviously genuine enthusiasm for his subject, the communication in itself would have won him over. It was like slipping into a time warp and finding yourself getting a letter from somebody straight out of P.G. Wodehouse. Mind you, that’s what James used to say about me. He probably meant it as a compliment at first, but the appeal soon died.
Maybe Dominic would appreciate that part of Morgan’s character; it was as good a reason as any for meeting him.
What if it means thinking about the Troilus again? You should put yourself first. You know what the thought of that wreck does to you.
Unease crept up his spine like an icy hand as he reread the letter, Dominic’s enthusiasm for the wreck shining through, but Morgan couldn’t spend his entire life avoiding the subject. If it wasn’t Dominic, it would be someone else talking about Troilus; Morgan had to deal with it. He got nightmares about the ship going down, that was all.
All? Since the first time he’d had the dream as a teenager, it had come back with startling regularity, like an old film that’s never off the television. To talk to Dominic about the shipwreck was to risk the dream returning when he’d kept it at bay for so long, but he had no choice now; the gauntlet he’d thrown down had been picked up again pretty speedily. He’d invite him down for the first May bank holiday weekend, as that would at least give them both a few days to prepare. He couldn’t believe he’d be lucky enough to find that Dominic would already have plans and they’d have to push the date back further.
Dominic not having provided a phone number, Morgan posted a reply the next day, afraid that if he delayed too long, he’d be tempted to rip the bloody letter up and simply hope that Dominic and his research went away. Ingrained values wouldn’t let him be so gung-ho—his mother would have killed him for such rudeness, back in the days when things like proper manners still mattered to her. He had to reply and expect a prompt response, given that Dominic, despite his slightly odd and old-fashioned style, seemed pretty determined.
For all Morgan’s perceptiveness about Dominic’s resolve, the swiftness of the bloke’s reply hitting the front door mat at Cadoc still surprised him. There had to have been an unprecedented juxtaposition of vans and trains and postmen to have turned the correspondence around so quickly.
Morgan didn’t dilly-dally about opening the envelope this time, nor did he need a crystal ball to predict that the answer would be a resounding Yes, please.
He’d been right about having to face things sooner rather than later. No matter how much he tried to slip out of Troilus’s grasp, she seemed determined to pin him down.