Much as he liked walking, Jory hadn’t been in the mood to traipse all the way back to Harlyn by himself for his car. He’d called Kirsty and got her to give him a lift there after she picked Gawen up from school. She was good about that sort of thing, and she hadn’t pressed him on the reason he needed a ride.
She had asked him if he’d had any more breakfast dates, but after Jory’s curt no, she’d dropped the subject, for which he was grateful.
The three of them went out for fish and chips down on the seafront once they were back in Porthkennack—Kirsty’s suggestion, because it at least meant that Gawen would get some fresh air in the day. He seemed happy enough, even though he had to put away his phone because greasy fingers and touch screens weren’t exactly a match made in heaven.
When they’d eaten, Jory had a go at teaching Gawen to skim stones. He picked up the technique surprisingly quickly for a boy who hated ball games, and they had a good time while Kirsty combed the beach for interesting driftwood. Everyone was still smiling at the end, which was something, wasn’t it?
And if Jory’s thoughts kept drifting to another beach, and what had happened there only hours previously, well, he’d just have to carry on finding things to distract himself with, and eventually it would stop hurting, wouldn’t it?
After he got home, Jory took his laptop down to the kitchen, made himself a mug of hot chocolate and spent the rest of the evening on the internet, learning far more about suicide by train than he’d ever wanted to know. Apparently between twenty-five and fifty people killed themselves on London Underground every year—sources disagreed on the exact tally. Half of those who tried it survived—maybe that was where the discrepancy arose?—some of whom were left with life-changing injuries. The most popular time, apparently, was eleven o’clock in the morning, which Jory couldn’t make sense of at all. The most popular line was the Northern Line. Having travelled on it, Jory could see a grim logic in that.
He wondered which line Mal had driven on. Did drivers have their own routes, like bus drivers, or did they just go wherever needed?
Bran came into the kitchen unexpectedly at one point, and Jory had to close his tabs in a hurry. Of all of them, Bran had taken their father’s suicide the worst. Jory had sometimes suspected it was why he’d never married—perhaps he never wanted to be so devoted to one person that their death would send him off the rails like that.
God. More railway imagery. That was the last thing Jory needed right now.
It took him a long time to get to sleep that night, and his dreams were a confused jumble of Mal, trains, and his long-dead father.
The next day dawned grey and overcast. Waking up with a heavy, tugging sense of loss, Jory was glad he had work to go to. If he’d had to spend a day idling around Roscarrock House, he reflected as he braved the drizzle to walk to the museum, he’d have been climbing the walls by lunchtime.
God, he missed climbing. Literal, not figurative. There was nothing quite like it—the steady reliance on one’s own body, methodical testing of handholds. The feeling of accomplishment on reaching the top.
Maybe he should find a local club? He’d held off, in the few months since his return to Porthkennack, because he knew Bran would be upset, even though the danger was minimal if proper safety procedures were followed. But he was missing the exercise as much as the challenge, and the sense of freedom climbing brought him. Fingertip pull-ups in the garage really weren’t the same.
And there was so much to climb around here. Right on his doorstep. It was almost criminal not to take advantage of it all. Jory allowed himself a wry smile as he let himself into the museum. He could always tell Bran he was bird-watching. Keep the gear stowed in the Qubo.
Yes. What he needed was something to focus on, to take his mind off . . . other things.
The morning passed more quickly than Jory had expected, with a steady trickle of visitors due to the rain forcing holidaymakers to find indoor amusements. There was already a family of four mooching around the exhibits when the door opened just before lunchtime.
Jory blinked and stood up. It was Mal.
He was the last person Jory had expected to walk in. He had on jeans and a slightly too-large long-sleeved T-shirt that made him look a good five years younger than he must be if he was Dev’s age. Any resentment Jory had harboured against him melted to see him like that.
“Reduced price entry for coming twice in one week?” Mal asked with an awkward smile that wrenched at Jory’s heart. “Or, you know, mates’ rates? If we’re still mates?”
“I, uh . . .” Jory swallowed. “Don’t worry about it. The ticket, I mean. Come in,” he added, because Mal was hovering by the door.
He loped in, all limbs today. “So, I, uh, I wanted to apologise. For yesterday.”
“The car incident? I told you, you’ve got nothing to apologise for.”
“Yeah, well, it put you right out, didn’t it? Having to leave your car there and all. And anyway, it wasn’t just that.” Mal ran a hand through his hair. “About the beach . . . I didn’t have me head on straight. What happened was out of order. So I’m sorry.”
He shoved both hands in his jeans pockets, and looked up at Jory with a sheepish expression, his rumpled hair falling over his eyes.
He’d probably practised that move from an early age to charm his way out of trouble. Even so, something inside Jory twisted and broke at the sight.
“Still mates?” Mal asked with a shy smile.
Christ. Right now, Jory would have happily given him his soul.
But mates was good. Better than . . . not mates. He nodded.
Mal broke out into a grin that had relief written all over it. “You’re aces, bruv. So how’s it going? Caught any mermaids yet?”
“Not yet. But I’m almost certain I’m going to get funding for the exhibition.” Jory knew he sounded more positive than the situation really warranted, but he was just so bloody glad to be on a safe subject.
“Yeah? That’s great. So tell me about the stuff you’ve got in here at the mo. I never got a good look around last time. Seaman Staines, here, he got a story?” Mal waved a hand at the dummy dressed in a replica eighteenth-century naval uniform, which Mrs. Quick had provided the museum with in a burst of enthusiasm last winter. It wasn’t a bad copy of the real thing, which they had under glass, of course.
“That’s Midshipman Staines to you. And yes, but it’s a short one—he went down with the wreck of the Troilus, apparently.” Jory pointed at the painting on the wall.
“Poor bastard. Was that wreckers, then?”
“Just rocks, as far as I know. But we do have a display about wreckers, over here.” He led Mal to a glass cabinet containing an eighteenth-century brandy bottle (empty), a flintlock pistol of uncertain antiquity, and a lurid retelling of the story of Cruel Coppinger, who wasn’t even local and the tales of whose misdeeds were almost certainly apocryphal. “I don’t think there’s a lot of historical truth in the legend,” he couldn’t help apologising. “Most visitors don’t seem to care, and it does make a good story.”
Mal nodded. “Yeah, it’s like all the King Arthur stuff, you know? And Robin Hood, and all that bollocks. Sometimes you just want to hear about heroes. Like, it’s, uh, aspirational?” He said the word as though unsure he was using it correctly, and Jory was unwillingly charmed all over again.
“Yes, I think the medieval concept of chivalry was something to aspire to, rather than a code people really lived by.” He smiled. “Although in fact the wreckers of Cornwall were probably better, and more humane, than the legends would have you believe. There are as many stories telling how they saved sailors’ lives as there are of them causing deaths.”
“What about pirates? I mean, have you got anything on Mary Roscarrock? Uh, the one what ran off to be a pirate?” Mal went pink. “If, you know, you don’t mind talking about it. Her being family.”
“She lived four hundred years ago. I think you can safely say we weren’t close.” Jory paused. “We haven’t, actually, and now you mention it, I’m not sure why. A local legend like that is just what we could do with here.”
“Yeah? Sure your big bruv wouldn’t close you down? Bringing the family name into disrepute and all that?”
Jory cast a glance around for the visitors and was relieved to see they’d wandered into another room. “Bran may like to think he controls everything in Porthkennack, but I can assure you, he doesn’t. I’ll ask Mrs. Quick about it. She’s been involved with the museum a lot longer than I have.”
Mal frowned. “Yeah, I been meaning to ask—she related to the old admiral there?” He nodded towards the bust of Admiral Quick over by the desk.
“Doubly, in fact. She’s the descendant of a cousin, I believe, and obviously she married a Quick.” Jory shrugged. “You get a lot of that sort of thing around here. Or, at least, you used to. These days everyone is a lot more mobile than they used to be.”
Mal grinned. “Yeah, I bet you miss the good old days with horses and carts and inbreeding and all that shit.”
“Thanks. I’m thirty-two, not a hundred and two.”
“You keep telling yourself that, Grandad.”
Jory was spellbound by the easy intimacy of the moment. It was as if nothing awkward had ever happened between them. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss Mal’s lips—but then the front door creaked open and the sound of voices interrupted.
Mal’s trainers squeaked on the floor. “Looks like I’d better let you get back to work.”
Jory swallowed. “Yes. Right.” He hurried back to his post at the desk and busied himself with the new visitors, handing over a family ticket for the princely sum of five pounds.
Mal dawdled around the museum a while longer, but Jory didn’t feel he ought to leave the desk and go chat with him while there were other visitors who might need his help.
It was probably better not to in any case. He didn’t want Mal to think he was following him around like a lovelorn sheep.
At length, Mal came back to him. “What time do you finish tonight?” he asked in a low voice.
“Five o’clock.” The surge of relief that Mal hadn’t simply waved and gone on his way left Jory a little giddy. “Would you like to go for a drink or something? Um, possibly not in the Sea Bell?”
Mal chuckled. “Yeah, maybe not. I’ll see you back here, and we can decide then, okay?”
“Okay.”
And it will be okay, Jory told himself. Just two men, having a friendly drink.
He could do that.
The heady rush of having more than half a dozen visitors to the museum all at the same time didn’t last, of course, but for once Jory didn’t mind. He was glad of the free time to consider plans for the evening.
He was less glad for the leisure to second-guess the purpose of tonight’s . . . well, he’d call it a date, except that Mal had been so adamant that kissing him had been a mistake, hadn’t he? But planning, planning was good.
And anyway, if Mal was that set on not kissing him again, he wouldn’t have arranged to see him the very next day, would he? Jory’s heart leapt at the possibilities. He’d have left it a few days at least. Even if he’d felt compelled to apologise as soon as possible, he wouldn’t have asked Jory out for the evening too. Not unless he . . .
But this was getting Jory nowhere. Except determined to have a concrete plan for the evening. Something for them to do, so there wouldn’t be any awkward silences.
Something fun, so Mal would enjoy their time together. Would want to see him again . . .
Oh hell. Jory might as well admit it to himself. He wanted to make Mal want to kiss him again. To realise that what there was between them—what there could be between them, at any rate—was strong enough not to pose any threat to Jory’s future relationship with Dev. What would be the best way of doing that? He needed something special. Something . . . something personal. Maybe if he showed Mal a little more of himself, he’d . . . Okay, there was a fifty-fifty chance Mal wouldn’t actually like what was revealed, but wasn’t all of life a gamble? Jory took risks every time he climbed—hell, he’d taken risks as a small child, scrambling along what remained of the smugglers’ tunnels through the cliffs of Big Guns Cove with Patrick.
Jory stood up from his chair with such an abrupt move the bust of Admiral Quick wobbled on its plinth behind him.
That was it. Something personal and fun. He’d take Mal down there.