Sunday morning was set aside for a lie in, brunch, and a visit to the museum, in that order. Morgan “passed” on the last of the three, ostensibly as he had groceries to get in but mainly because the conversation of the night before refused to stop nagging at him. It wouldn’t be healthy to live in each other’s pockets, irrespective of that early-relationship desire to be with the other every minute. To give in to that temptation, the slogging east and west across the country every weekend, would wear them out. And Morgan’s recent experience of a long-distance relationship wasn’t encouraging.
By the time he got to one o’clock, though, he was itching to get in the car and drive to their rendezvous—a small car park on the coast south of Porthkennack next to a great café, much frequented by locals and hopefully not yet overrun by grockles.
He’d not long been in the car park when Dominic’s Yaris appeared, pulling up in the place next to his Audi. By the eager grin plastered over his gob, Dominic had to have something important to share.
“Any luck?” Morgan asked, as they got out of their cars.
“Possibly, or possibly not.” Dominic smirked.
“How useless a researcher are you? That’s no academic sort of an answer.”
“I think it’s a highly academic sort of an answer.” Dominic tapped on his car bonnet like a lecturer emphasising some point. “Life is rarely cut-and-dried.”
“Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it? You’d better explain it in words of one syllable. Over lunch, preferably.” The café was convenient, comfortable, and gave a stunning view over the sea. No part of the District line could offer anything as good. It was warm enough for taking drinks and sandwiches outside too. A couple of bottles of cold beer on the table and they could get back down to business.
“This is all right, isn’t it?” Dominic took a draught, then admired the beer he’d poured into his glass. “This’ll lubricate the brain. Anyway, the lady at the museum had never heard of a local saying about Mary Lusmoore, and none of the books in the gift shop seemed to mention her. And flicking through them was a major act of subterfuge, under the beady eye of the man at the till.”
“I bet. I think he’s been there since Noah came out of the ark. Bite your leg if you dare to leave a corner dog-eared.”
“Tell me about it. I had to visit there three times, and buy something each go. My niece and nephew will be delighted. Exactly the kind of tat I’d have enjoyed at their age. Anyway, I asked the lady about local records, and she said I couldn’t get access before Tuesday, so I’ve made an appointment.” Dominic knocked back his beer, appreciatively.
“I’m guessing that, as regards luck, that was the ‘possibly not’ bit.” Morgan savoured his own drink; bottled Italian beer, not as meaty as a pint of Chough’s Nest, but wonderfully refreshing on a warm afternoon. “What’s the ‘possibly’?”
“Our grumpy friend in the gift shop was grilling me about what I was up to, so I had to tell him. He reckons there’s an old poem about the wreck, or Mary Lusmoore, or both, in the archives.”
“Hm. Are you sure that story isn’t an embellishment one of your ‘helpful’ volunteers came up with to secure a repeat visit?”
“Spoilsport. I’ll find out on Tuesday. I’m also hoping there might be something in the archives about the provenance of that uniform.”
“Don’t hold your breath about the reliability of the archives on anything. Dad always used to say that you have to take all the local history with a pinch of salt. Or maybe a dirty great sack full. Unless you trust the sources.”
“Your dad was very wise.” Dominic swirled the remains of his beer around the glass. “So where’s going to be reliable?”
“We could try one of the local churches. We’re unlikely to be able to poke through the registers today—anyway most of the old stuff is probably at the county archive—but the graves go back a long way. They’re not all legible.”
Dominic’s eyes shone. “I’ve got my rubbing equipment in the car. Sometimes that brings the writing up.”
“Great. Now we only need to know where the Lusmoores bury their kin.”
“The Lusmoores?” The café owner—who’d come out to clear away used crockery off the tables—piped up. “Sorry. Wasn’t listening in.”
“Never thought you were.” Morgan grinned.
“If you want Lusmoore plots, they’re all up at the new cemetery.”
Morgan shivered; that was where his dad had been laid to rest. He said, hastily, “That’s too recent for us. You wouldn’t happen to know where we can find any older ones? Victorian or further back.”
The café owner blew out her cheeks. “I think there might be some at that old church, on the Harlyn road. The one they tarted up and reopened a few years back. Not far from the recycling centre.”
Dominic thanked the woman for her help, then glanced at Morgan. “Do you know where that is?”
“I can get us to the recycling centre. You can navigate once we’re there.”
“Sounds like the blind leading the blind,” the cafe owner said witheringly over her shoulder as she took the cutlery she’d collected back inside, so she didn’t hear Dominic’s response of “She knows us too well,” or see him almost wetting himself with laughter.
Morgan shared the laughter, and an affectionate glance. How could he have ever contemplated not inviting this guy back, and where would he have been if he hadn’t?
The churchyard—which was easy to find, blind or not—appeared surprisingly overgrown, although a statement on the notice board by the lychgate informed them this wasn’t neglect but part of a scheme to encourage wild flowers to grow. Nobody seemed to be around, apart from a woman tending one of the plots, and another notice stated that the church itself was only used on the first Sunday morning of the month, while the bulk of services took place at the newer church which had sprung up to serve the burgeoning Porthkennack population and which didn’t suffer from dry rot and—literally—bats in the belfry. There was a sheet of paper telling people all about them too; somebody in the church must have either had too much time on their hands or an unhealthy penchant for informational posters.
Morgan and Dominic decided to separate, working logically from opposite corners, scouring up and down through the plots, letting each other know if they found any Lusmoores, so that Dominic could take a wealth of photos to pore over at home. At least that was the plan, but the family proved hard to track down—as elusive in death as in life—until Morgan stumbled across a single plot, surprisingly well tended given that it dated from late in Queen Victoria’s reign. He waved Dominic across, not wanting to shout in this particular location.
“Hopefully this is the first of several.” Dominic got out his camera to take a picture of the headstone, which was just about legible: Harold and his wife, who might have been Ellen. “There’s no logic to what’s where in this place.”
“No. I can’t see any more Lusmoores around this grave. I guess there are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, though.” The sun was on their backs, the birds singing in the trees, not a grockle in sight.
“Glad you’re not bored off your face.” Dominic put his camera away and wandered back to his own search sector, without waiting for a response. Morgan had to admit that he wasn’t bored. The search for Lawson was intriguing, especially when it steered clear of ships. A recollection of his nightmare sent a chill through his bones, but he shook it off.
As it turned out, maybe he should have heeded that as a warning, but he got back to the hunt, going along the line of gravestones, stooping here and there to read the weathered inscriptions. He’d felt fine all day, other than a slight ringing and discomfort in his ears as he kept bending and straightening again, so the devastating rush of symptoms, when it came, felt like an express train hitting. The sudden wave of dizziness and nausea, the sensation that some idiot had taken the churchyard and made it spin like a merry-go-round, the panic at not knowing what the bloody hell was going on, almost floored him. He managed to stagger to a convenient tomb, then parked his backside on it, waiting for the world to stop whizzing round.
Dominic rushed over, but his voice, distant and unclear, sounded like it was echoing from inside a well. At last Morgan made out that he was being asked what was wrong.
“How the hell do I know?” he managed to whisper, trying to force his eyes to focus.
Dominic knelt in front of him, putting his hand on Morgan’s knee. “What are your symptoms? Apart from looking like death?”
“Dizzy. Can’t see or hear properly.” Morgan ran a hand across his brow, finding it clammy and cold. “Feel like I might puke. You’re right in range.”
Dominic’s grip on Morgan’s knee tightened, but he neither flinched nor moved. “Should I ring for an ambulance?”
“No, I’ll be all right in a minute.” Morgan wasn’t certain he believed that, but he didn’t want to get the emergency services over if he wasn’t in danger. Although how did he know if he was in danger or not? He didn’t have pain in his arm or chest, so this couldn’t be a heart attack, could it? Stroke? He flexed his hands, but they both responded equally.
“You don’t give the impression of being all right. Are you sure I shouldn’t run you to casualty?”
“I’m sure. Don’t make a fuss.” He didn’t seem to be at imminent risk of death. “I had a funny five minutes, that’s all.”
“Hm.” Dominic narrowed his eyes. “Looked like more than that to me.”
Morgan shook Dominic’s hand away, then tried to get up, but had to sit straight down; if he wasn’t on his feet, the world wasn’t whirling around him. “Give me a minute or two,” he gasped.
“When you’re up to it, I’ll drive us both home. The graves can wait. We can come back for them—and for your car—when you’re feeling better.” Dominic patted Morgan’s knee again. “Give me your keys and I’ll make sure it’s all secured.”
Morgan was about to protest but then gave in, meekly handing over his key ring. There was no way he should be behind a wheel in this state. And thank God he had Dominic at hand. Had Mum felt like this, when she’d had her fall?
He was slightly less green about the gills by the time they got back home, Dominic having driven calmly and steadily to reduce the vehicle’s throwing itself about in the winding lanes. Almost well enough to persuade himself not to ring the doctor, although Dominic wouldn’t be swayed. He stood over Morgan while he made the call to the NHS Direct service, the impatient patient praying they wouldn’t immediately order him down to the hospital for a once-over. Was he just being stubborn, or did the spectre of his mother’s experience still haunt him? Her fall and hospitalisation had been the first steps on a slippery slope.
As they waited for the nurse to ring back, Dominic got Morgan a drink of water and tried to keep them cheerful. “I bet they’re not used to locals needing attention on a bank holiday Sunday. Usually grockles with sunburn. Or frostbite.” The words might have been humorous, but his pained expression gave him away.
“It’ll make a change.” Morgan took a sip. The nausea had eased, and his head was clearing, to the point he felt like a bit of a fraud. But the call from the nurse put an end to that. After going through a seemingly endless checklist of symptoms, she said she thought he might have labyrinthitis, although she’d get a doctor to do a phone consultation. At least it wasn’t a trip to casualty, but Morgan still didn’t relish the experience.
They’d already moved into the lounge, where Morgan could sprawl on the sofa with the landline handset close by. Dominic had pointed out—quite logically—that keeping the mobile free for nonmedical calls would be sensible. If he actually meant that strategy kept an incoming line open for the nursing home if need be, he was too diplomatic to mention it. Morgan shut his eyes and tried to grab a nap, but sleep was too elusive, every little noise making him start, thinking the phone was about to go. After twenty minutes he gave up.
“I’ve been finding out about this on the internet while you’ve been having a rest.” Dominic scrolled down his laptop’s screen. “It’s a lot easier to find stuff about labyrinthitis than about John Lawson. I think you may be having it quite easy, compared to some people. You don’t have pus coming out of your ears, for a start.”
Morgan grimaced. “That really doesn’t help my nausea, thank you.”
“Sorry. And don’t tell me off for using that word. Circumstances alter cases.” Dominic came over to perch on the side of the sofa. “You’re not a very good patient, are you?”
“Leave off.” Morgan frowned. “Can I have a cup of tea?”
“Not until you’ve spoken to the doctor.”
“I’m not likely to need a general anaesthetic, am I?” He tried to look appealing.
“Oh, all right. But stay there. I can find everything.” Dominic headed for the kitchen while Morgan carefully readjusted his position. He tried flicking on the television, but the first thing he encountered—a cinema-style advert with flashy, jump-cut photography and blaring music—made him so disoriented he shut the box straight down again. He wasn’t sure he could manage something as sedate as watching a cricket match at this rate.
Dominic returned with a steaming mug of tea, which Morgan sipped gratefully while he explained his lack of success with the goggle-box.
“That’s no surprise. Most adverts are hard enough to put up with even if you’re feeling a hundred percent. If I was prime minister I’d—”
A shrill ringtone interrupted Dominic’s sermon.
“That’s the doctor, I hope.” Morgan grabbed the phone.
After the initial checks, his name and date of birth and all the rest of it gone over yet again, he went through the events in the graveyard, reciting for the third time the list of symptoms, saying yes or no while the doctor explored a list of other questions as he tried to pin down a diagnosis. Had he been ill, with a cold or something similar? Was he under stress or over tired? In the end, the diagnosis of labyrinthitis seemed to be confirmed, and Morgan was advised to have plenty to drink; get plenty of rest; avoid alcohol, bright lights, and loud noise; and generally take care of himself. With the proviso that if his symptoms changed and any alarming signs showed up, he’d go straight to casualty or call an ambulance. Morgan agreed and put the phone down.
“So what’s the prognosis?” Dominic asked.
“Keep it till it gets better.” Morgan fleshed that out with some of the things the doctor had said. “If need be, he’ll give me a course of Valium, but I’d rather not go down that at this point.”
“I don’t blame you. And I’m appointing myself your nurse. You can lie on that settee the rest of the day, and I’ll fetch and carry.”
“Am I allowed to get up for a wee or will you provide a bedpan?”
“Goon.” Dominic put down his mug. “Your tea will have gone cold. Let me get you a fresh one.”
“And biscuits,” Morgan pleaded. “No reason I can’t have something to keep me going.”
“Plain ones, then. You still look like you might puke at any moment.”
“Yes, nurse.” Morgan shut his eyes, listening to his guest clanking about in the kitchen. The conversation with the doctor had eased his concerns on the threat-to-life front, but his longer-term anxiety remained.
“Did that doctor suggest you went to your own GP to get checked over?” Dominic asked, as he came back into the lounge bearing a tray of goodies.
“No. He reckons if I take it easy for a few days, I should be back to normal. No—” Morgan held up his hand and pointed with his shortcake biscuit “—no comments about me not ever turning out normal.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Dominic chuckled. “Would it be better if I booked into that hotel? Or would you prefer to have me on hand to do the nursing duties?”
“For once I’m going to swallow my pride and say I’d love it if you’d stay. And not just to wait on me hand and foot. I’d like somebody around.”
“I get that. I’ll ring the hotel tomorrow and tell them. CBA to do it tonight, to be honest.” Dominic dunked his biscuit in his tea, then ate it with evident enjoyment. After both giving themselves to nothing other than the sensual pleasures of sipping tea and clearing the biscuit plate, Dominic remarked, with an airiness that wouldn’t have fooled anybody, “You didn’t mention the nightmare?”
Morgan, suddenly wary, drained his mug before answering. “Why should I? It’s not related.”
“No-o,” Dominic replied, unconvincingly. “I only wondered if the nightmares had made you tired. Might have contributed to the labyrinthitis.”
“They might. Except that I haven’t had those dreams in weeks.”
“Good point.” Dominic avoided Morgan’s gaze.
“Is that why you were so keen on me seeing a doctor? Because you think I need help? That this funny turn is all linked up to me going loony?”
“I never said that. I never said anything like it.” Dominic winced. “I only meant it would be worth getting a proper check over. You’ve been through the mill and you could be overstressed and run down, at the very least.”
“Thanks for the medical advice, Dr. Watson.”
“Oh, stop being such an arsehole. I don’t need a medical degree to see that you’re worrying yourself sick about everything. Be honest with me. Why won’t you get some help?”
Morgan opened his mouth, shut it again, then sat in silence, letting his anger subside. “Because I’m scared, can’t you see that? Scared of what a proper doctor might tell me.”
“Isn’t knowing the truth better than torturing yourself with pessimistic self-diagnosis?” Dominic came over, settling himself next to Morgan on the settee to stroke his leg. “My God, you’re shaking.”
“I know. It isn’t funny being me, living in my head.” Morgan pressed his hands together between his thighs.
Dominic took them in his own, stilling the trembling. “The chances are this is nothing sinister, neither the dreams or the dizziness, and all the worry has been unnecessary.”
Morgan took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll make an appointment for next week.”
Dominic narrowed his eyes. “Will you really?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Do I have to answer that? It might incriminate me.” Dominic might have been joking, but he was as pale and drawn as if he’d been the one to have been taken ill. “I have half a mind to bundle you in the bloody car on Tuesday and force you to see the GP. But I won’t; it’s a decision you must make for yourself. Nobody and nothing else can work it.”
“Heal myself and all that new-age mumbo jumbo?”
“You’re being a dick again.” Dominic’s sudden smile belied his words. “All I’m saying is that if I made you see the doctor, you’d be going in half cock—shut up sniggering—and would probably clam up when he asked you something too close to home.”
“You know me far too well.” Morgan sighed. “Okay, I will make that appointment, but not until this labyrinthitis has calmed down. I need to get my head clear.”
“Hm. Okay.”
The determined set of Dominic’s face showed Morgan this was a promise he wouldn’t be able to wriggle out of, no matter how much he wanted to.