Jory had never expected to be so grateful for his stopgap job at the museum, but it was a lifeline over the next few days. He threw himself into organising the mermaid exhibition and didn’t think about Mal in the slightest.
The fact that he couldn’t seem to keep himself from looking up hopefully whenever the door opened was just . . . just him hoping for more visitors, that was all.
After work, he went for walks on the beach, with or without Gawen. Or he baked. He’d taken to keeping a tin of biscuits on the front desk at the museum now, and offering them to anyone who came in—well, there were only so many he could give to Kirsty and Gawen, and Bea was no help at all in eating them up.
Bran could buy his own biscuits. Jory couldn’t help thinking half the trouble between him and Mal was down to Bran having flown right off the handle last year over Dev.
Of course, strictly speaking, he should be blaming Bea too. But he couldn’t bring himself to, somehow. She’d been so . . . quiet lately. He wouldn’t go so far as to say she was sad, because he’d never been any good at telling how Bea was feeling, but she didn’t seem particularly happy. As if she was upset by the Dev issue being raised again.
Logic told him he was theorising without evidence. Logic was bloody well overrated.
At five o’clock on a day that had been even quieter than average, Jory shut up the museum as usual. Time to go home. All of a sudden, though, he just couldn’t face another long evening in that big, echoing house being ignored by Bran and Bea.
If he was going to be lonely anyway, he’d rather do it on his own, thanks.
Gawen had piano tonight and homework afterwards, so there was no point going round there. And Jory shouldn’t rely on his son every time he felt the urge to get out of the house in any case. Gawen had a life of his own. It was past time Jory started building one for himself in Porthkennack.
Walking back up the cliff path, he had the urge to break into a run. He was restless—physically as well as mentally. He needed something more physical to do than just baking his way through the EU flour mountain. Glancing at the craggy shapes of the cliffs gave him his inspiration.
There was a boulder down one end of Booby’s Bay he’d been meaning to have a go at for a while, and tackling it would be ideal to ease him back into climbing. Technical enough to take his mind off . . . things, but with zero safety issues. And if he found his stamina wasn’t up to a lengthy session, he could simply jump off.
He had all the gear he’d need in the back of the Qubo already, so all he’d have to do was change his clothes and jump in the car. Well, that and avoid Bran, so as not to face any awkward questions about what he was up to. Jory wasn’t sure if Bran understood the distinction between bouldering and riskier forms of climbing, and he just didn’t have the patience to explain it right now.
Jory made it through the house and up to his room without incident, and miracle of miracles, managed to get back out to his car safely too.
Of course, sod’s law meant that when he got down to Booby’s Bay, he found the Slanted Boulder, named for its diagonally rising undercut seam, already taken. Jory dumped his backpack on the ground and watched for a while as a skinny young lad—probably around Mal’s age, or maybe a bit younger—talked his girlfriend through a rising traverse.
Jory had only been watching for ten minutes when he decided she’d have managed fine without the running commentary—her would-be instructor apparently hadn’t even noticed she was quietly ignoring his advice wherever she saw fit.
When she finished the traverse and jumped down, Jory made a point of stepping forward to congratulate her. “Nice job.”
“Thanks!” The girl turned to smile at him. Her face was marred by a big scab on the end of her nose. Looking closer, Jory could see other signs of recent minor injury. “It’s my first time back—took a fall last week and missed the crash pad. But I made it this time!”
They fist-bumped. Her obvious buzz was infectious, but out of the corner of his eye Jory could see the boyfriend hovering sullenly, and decided he’d better cut this short to avoid causing a row. He turned to the skinny lad. “Are you planning on tackling it now, or can I have a go?”
The lad visibly relaxed at the evidence that Jory was only muscling in on his boulder, not on his girlfriend. “All yours, mate. Think we’re gonna head down to the wall now.” He sent a questioning glance at the girl, who nodded. “Won’t even spray beta at you this time,” the lad added, and she gave him a fond smile.
“It helped. Honest.”
Jory felt a lot more kindly disposed to him on learning he’d been providing a safety net, rather than simply showing off.
“Just let me clean up,” she went on, then brushed away the few patches of white chalk she’d left, packed up her mat and shoes, and left, hand in hand with the boyfriend.
Jory watched them go for a minute.
If only all things were as easy to get over as a fall from a boulder. Would getting back into the driving seat—any driving seat—help Mal? He couldn’t help thinking getting over killing a man with a train, however unintentionally, wasn’t going to be so simple.
And anyway, hadn’t Mal made it clear he didn’t want anything more from Jory?
The memory left a bitter taste in his mouth. Jory forced himself to focus, pulling out his crash pad, shoes, and chalk. The problem he wanted to try was a vertical climb up the left side of the boulder, with a sit start. The climbing forum he’d seen it described on had rated it as of average difficulty, and it seemed like a good one to dust off his skills on.
Jory gazed at the boulder until he was certain he had it mapped in his head, then got into the starting position. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the back of his neck. As he concentrated on the problem and began to climb, the world dropped away, narrowing into the distance to his next hand- or foothold. He could feel his limbs stretching properly for the first time in what felt like ages. He’d ache tomorrow, but he’d have earned it.
His toes slipped halfway up, but he recovered, and after that it was easier, the holds more secure. He’d always loved bouldering—there might not be the heady achievement of a long, difficult climb up a vertical cliff face, but it was freeing, climbing without the heavy tackle of ropes and harness. Conquering nature’s barriers by his own efforts alone.
When he reached the top, it felt like too soon. Then again . . . the online forum had described several other problems on this one boulder, including the rising traverse, and when Jory cast a glance down behind him, he couldn’t see anyone queuing up to have a go. There were just a couple of tourists watching the spectacle.
Jory smiled to himself, double-checked the fall area was clear, and jumped off.
An hour or so later, Jory slung his backpack onto the passenger seat of the Qubo and changed out of his climbing shoes. He felt better now. Calmer.
And absolutely ravenous. Time to head home.
Traffic through town was light, the rush hour, such as it was, already over, and Jory made it back to Roscarrock House in good time. He parked the Qubo in the old stables and was stowing his backpack and climbing shoes in the boot when Bran walked in, car keys in hand. Jory froze. Damn. Why the hell hadn’t he put everything away down at the bay?
Had Bran noticed?
“Off out?” Jory asked, trying to sound casual. He was a grown man, damn it, and he didn’t need Bran’s permission for his hobbies.
But he didn’t have the energy for a row right now.
“Obviously.” Bran gave Jory an unreadable look. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, so presumably was going to some kind of business dinner. “You’re late back.”
“Making the most of the weather.” Jory kept his gaze level.
After a moment Bran, turned away and went to his car.
Jory found Bea in the kitchen, staring into the fridge as if hoping a meal would magically spring out and cook itself.
Or maybe merely wondering who’d had the last of the celery sticks. If she’d wanted them saved, she shouldn’t have left them so temptingly close to the sour cream dip.
She looked up at Jory. “Oh, hello. You’re late.”
“Uh, yes.” Jory forced himself to go on cheerfully. “I was going to cook—care to join me?”
She blinked and straightened. “All right. As it’s just the two of us.”
He hadn’t expected her to accept. It was an unpleasant shock to realise he’d probably better come up with something a little more “proper” than his half-formed plan of having whatever was in the fridge with pasta and canned tomatoes. Of course, there were any number of ready meals in the freezer, but he had his pride.
In the end, he knocked up a quick risotto, adding a kick with some leftover chorizo, which she eyed dubiously but tucked into well enough with a comment of, “This is actually quite nice.”
Jory narrowed his eyes at her over a forkful of food. “You know, it’d be a better compliment if you left out the ‘actually.’”
“When did you learn to cook? I always assumed you ate in hall, at your universities. I did.”
“That’s because you were only there for three years, as an undergraduate. And not every university is like Cambridge. Dining in a medieval college with a high table and Latin grace is one thing. Mucking in with a load of teenagers in an overcrowded student union café is quite another.”
She half smiled. “I always did wonder how you managed, living a student lifestyle all these years. Bran used to say he thought you just didn’t want to grow up.”
“Bran can—” Jory caught himself up short. This friendly atmosphere between them felt like a fragile thing, easily shattered. “Make his own dinner,” he finished weakly.
“He does have your best interests at heart.”
Did he, bollocks. “I think I’m old enough to judge for myself what’s in my best interest, thanks.”
Bea frowned. “You know it wasn’t easy for him when Father died.”
“Uh, no. I’m sure it wasn’t.” Jory racked his brains for innocuous topics of conversation. Then he had it—something Mal had asked about.
Not that he was hoping to use it as an excuse to talk to Mal again. Obviously.
“Bea, I was wondering—that legend about Mary Roscarrock back in sixteen-oh-whatever turning to piracy. I know we play it up for the tourists, but is there much truth in it?”
She gave him an odd look. “Why the interest?”
“I, um . . . For Gawen. He likes to learn about family history.” Jory instinctively felt it would be better not to mention any possible museum exhibits until he knew more about the subject. Bea might be difficult about that sort of thing, and there was no point starting a fight before it was necessary.
“I’m sure he’s heard the stories already.”
“Yes, but he’s, uh, very factually minded. I think he’d appreciate knowing how much of the legend is actually true. Do we have any family records, anything like that?”
Bea put her fork down, although she was only halfway through her risotto, and pushed her chair back.
“Bea?” What on earth had he said to upset her? He put down his own fork, ready to stand up if she did. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing. . . You should finish your meal. Don’t let it go to waste.”
That was rather hypocritical of her, as although she stayed at the table, she didn’t touch the remainder of her food. Jory had more or less lost his appetite too, but he ate anyway. Maybe it would help her compose herself.
He’d probably given her too much on her plate in any case.
After a few minutes, he was rewarded by her speaking again.
“It brought back some memories, that’s all.” She had a drink of water, then replaced her glass precisely in the middle of the coaster. “I don’t suppose I’ve really thought about Mary Roscarrock since I was sixteen.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You do recall what happened that year?” Bea asked, her tone impatient.
Jory hesitated, then said it anyway. “Dev was born? But I don’t see—”
“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.