Seven o’clock. At the Sea Bell. That was what Jory had agreed to—or at least, he hadn’t managed to say a definite no, so he should probably go, shouldn’t he? It would be rude not to.
Stepping out of the museum at ten past five and locking the door behind him, Jory considered his options. The obvious thing to do would be to walk home, grab something to eat, maybe have a shower and change his clothes . . .
No. God, no. He was reading too much into a simple invitation for a drink. This wasn’t a date.
Is it? Jory wondered as he took the path along the cliffs. The museum was only half an hour’s walk from Roscarrock House, so he never drove unless the rain was coming down in torrents and sometimes not even then. Today the weather was glorious, with hardly a cloud in the endless blue sky and the sea breeze taking the edge off the lingering heat of the day. It promised a warm, pleasant evening, which, given they were only a week or two past midsummer, would last for hours. Below him, the beach stretched out, golden and inviting. On another day, Jory might have gone for a swim—might even have called Kirsty and asked if Gawen would like to come to the beach for some father-son time, although today being Sunday, he’d probably been out with his mother already. Time was too tight today if he wanted to arrive punctually for his date.
Or not, as the case might be, although Mal had definitely seemed to be flirting. He’d winked. Who actually did that these days? Or any days, come to that?
So it might be a date.
Then again, Mal had just suffered a bereavement. Perhaps he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Simply going through the motions. Perhaps he was one of those people who flirted with everyone. For all Jory knew, Mal might be straight as an arrow.
But he’d winked. Did straight men wink at other men?
He could ask his brother . . . Except that no, he really, really couldn’t. Bran wouldn’t be at all pleased about him having a date. Especially with a man. Maybe he could get away with asking the question, and not mentioning the invitation to the pub?
Because of course Bran wouldn’t smell anything remotely rodent-like about Jory mentioning he’d been winked at, and then disappearing out for the evening.
Bugger it. He’d just have to play it by ear. Right, well, a quick shower wouldn’t hurt in any case. His sister, Bea, had sniffed the air when she got home from work one evening a week or so back and accused Jory of smelling of museum, which she’d informed him meant dust and dead things.
They didn’t even have any dead things in the naval museum, but better safe than sorry.
As the path got steeper leading up to Big Guns Cove, Jory found his pace increasing, the exertion helping to calm his nerves. Silly of him. Mal was obviously a tourist, so he wouldn’t be here long in any case.
Long enough, perhaps, a sly voice that came directly from his id whispered in his mind.
Roscarrock House had been closed to visitors today, so there were no last stragglers to weave his way around as Jory made it through the gates, which was how he liked it. He didn’t know how Bran could stand working from home while strangers poked and pried through the rooms open to them, laughing at the family portraits and occasionally speculating loudly on Great-uncle Lochrin’s paternity. And Jory’s, come to that, when they got to the photographs.
Every time he came back, Jory had to get used to it all again. Perhaps after a year or two of living here full-time, he wouldn’t even notice, as Bran seemed not to. And Bea, for that matter, although Jory had always found it impossible to tell what Bea thought about anything.
Jory managed to avoid Bran on his way to the bathroom. Bran had a way of making Jory feel like he should be asking permission to go out, which had perhaps been reasonable when he was seventeen and they were newly orphaned, but was a little ridiculous now he was thirty-two years old.
Showered and changed into jeans and a polo shirt Kirsty had once complimented him on, Jory headed down to the kitchen.
There was something about being back in Porthkennack that gave him an appetite. Maybe it was the sea air, or maybe it was just the association with childhood and big family dinners. At any rate, Jory was starving, so he dumped a generous portion of pasta into a pan and set it on to boil. There was half a jar of sauce in the fridge, and enough ham and vegetables to pad it out a bit. Plenty for one person. He’d given up trying to persuade Bran and Bea they should all eat together, even one day a week. Their schedules never seemed to match—Bea in particular was always home late from the office, or off at some social event that was more about business than pleasure, like today. He had a strong suspicion that she didn’t much like eating in company. Maybe she was worried about looking too human.
Jory gave his wrist a mental slap. He wasn’t being fair. And it was time to put the sauce on.
Halfway through his meal, it occurred to Jory that the pub most likely served food. Would Mal be planning to eat?
He’d said, Come for a drink, but maybe he’d meant with the option of dinner afterwards? Oh hell. Why did life have to be so impossibly complicated? Making a snap decision to hedge his bets, Jory put down his fork and shoved an upturned plate over the rest of his meal. He could always microwave it later.
Then he jammed his feet into his trainers, checked his reflection in the hall mirror for sauce splatters, and set off out, all without having bumped into Bran, miracle of miracles.
The Sea Bell was down a country lane, not far from St. Ia’s church. Jory hadn’t been there in years. In fact, the last time he’d had a pint in there had probably been over a decade ago, back when he was a student home from uni for the summer. He hadn’t remembered it as being quite so . . . unwelcoming. And that was just the exterior. There were no baskets of flowers hanging outside to entice the tourists, and no blackboards advertising quiz nights or football matches or whatever else went on in pubs these days. Just the pub sign itself, a painted rendition of a ship’s bell, creaking gently as it swung in the breeze. The salt-laden air had wrought havoc on the paint, which was starting to peel—as was the sober green paint on the doors and windows.
And yes, Jory could stand outside all evening cataloguing the depredations of time on the place, but that rather defeated the object of coming here, didn’t it? He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the door.
The inside of the pub was rather of a piece with its exterior. A row of men of indeterminate age sat at the bar. One of them glanced around at him, stony-faced, then turned back to his pint. Jory swallowed the urge to flee. For God’s sake, it wasn’t like he was some interloper. He was Porthkennack born and bred. He was a Roscarrock, damn it.
Mal was sitting at one end of the bar chatting to the barmaid they’d spoken of earlier. Jory hesitated, not wanting to barge in, but she spotted him and said something to Mal, who turned round and gave him a wave.
Feeling slightly less awkward now, Jory walked up to him.
Mal smiled in welcome. “Good to see you, mate. Tasha, this is Jory, yeah? The bloke from the museum who made me tea and stuff. His biscuits are well tasty.” He winked again.
Oh, bloody hell. Jory tried to will himself not to blush. “I . . . Thank you. Um. Can I get you a drink?”
“They’re on me,” Tasha said firmly. “What you drinking?”
“There’s no need—”
“Don’t be daft. You took care of Mal, didn’t you?”
Mal, Jory couldn’t help but notice, was looking more and more exasperated. “Pint of cider,” he said quickly. “Please.”
“Rattler, Strongbow, or Scrumpy Jack?”
Just what he needed. Further choices. “The first,” Jory said, trying to sound decisive.
Mal grinned and held up his half-full glass. “Good innit? That’s what I’m on.”
Jory wasn’t sure what made him glance round as Tasha pulled his pint. Some kind of sixth sense that he was being watched, perhaps. A man in his sixties or so was working at the other end of the bar—at least, he was on the working side of the bar, although he was in fact perched on a stool and drinking a pint of beer. He looked vaguely familiar, and his gaze was fixed firmly on Jory.
As their eyes met, the man put down his pint and, without hurrying, got to his feet. He headed down to their end of the bar.
He wasn’t smiling.
Jory startled as Tasha put his drink in front of him with a “There you go, babe.”
“Th-thanks.” He took a gulp, hoping to steady his nerves.
“Well, well. We don’t often see the likes of you in here.” The barman’s tone was gruff and not precisely welcoming. He turned to Mal, who seemed as confused as Jory felt. “Surprised to see you drinking with him.”
“What? Why?”
“Tell you his name, did he?”
Mal frowned. “He’s Jory. Works up at the museum.”
“Actually that’s just temporary—”
“He’s a Roscarrock.” The barman said it flatly. Coldly. As if it was a bad thing. “Brother to Branok and Beaten Roscarrock.”
Jory swallowed. Everyone was staring at him now. “Ah, well, yes.” He wondered desperately what his family could have done to provoke such hostility. Jory had an idea that Bran could be a little ruthless when it came to property, but surely that was all business?
This seemed personal.
“Didn’t tell you that, did he?” the barman went on.
Mal’s face had changed, and not in a good way. “No, he didn’t.”
“You didn’t ask! I mean, we didn’t exchange surnames. W-what’s this all about?” Jory hated how his stammer came back in times of stress.
“My bruv,” Tasha snapped. “Mal’s best mate. Devan Thompson.”
Jory frowned, baffled. “Who?”
Mal pushed away from the bar and walked off a couple of paces. Then he turned back, his face hard. “Not funny, mate. Seriously, not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be—”
“Can I bar him?” Tasha asked the barman. “Can I?”
Jory just stared at them, wishing he’d never come. How the hell had it all gone so wrong so quickly? He should have stayed at home with his books and his computer. Or gone to see Kirsty and Gawen. Not accepted invitations from good-looking strangers. When had that ever ended well for him? He should go, now, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot.
“I think you’d better leave,” the barman rumbled, and that broke the spell.
Jory fled.
When he got back home, Jory scrambled through the house until he ran down Bran in his study. “Who’s Devan Thompson?” he demanded.
Bran glanced up briefly, then returned his gaze to the file he’d been leafing through. “Who?”
“Don’t play games with me. He’s the man who just got me thrown out of a pub, despite the fact I’ve never even met him.” Jory’s face was hot with remembered humiliation.
“What?” Bran’s face darkened as he stood up. “That’s an outrage. Which pub? Was it the Sea Bell?”
“I . . . It doesn’t matter.” The last thing Jory wanted was to cause any more bad blood.
“What were you doing in a pub?”
Oh God. Jory should never have started this. “Tell me about Devan Thompson,” he said quickly.
Bran’s glare deepened for a moment, but then he let out an exasperated huff and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “I suppose I’d better tell you. I don’t want you bothering Bea about this. You won’t remember—you were just a baby—but when Bea and I were in our teens, there was a . . . regrettable incident with a boy visiting for the summer. Devan Thompson was the result.”
Jory stared. “He’s Bea’s son? Our nephew?”
“Only in the strictest sense. He has no claim on us. I thought all of that would have blown over by now. And you have met him,” Bran added. “You were the one who let him into our house in the first place.”
Jory recoiled at the accusation in Bran’s tone. “I— What? When?”
“Last summer. When he came looking for Bea.”
“Last summer? And neither of you told me?” Jory desperately tried to recall the occasion. He’d met his nephew and he hadn’t even known?
“It was nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing . . . He’s family, for God’s sake.”
“No, he’s a mistake.”
“How come nobody forced her to get married?” Jory couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone.
“She was far too young for that, and there was no question of her keeping the baby.” Bran’s tone was brusque.
“How old was she?”
“Does it matter?” Bran made an impatient noise. “He was born when we were sixteen.”
Sixteen . . . Jory would have been seven. In his first year of boarding school . . . “Is that why I had to spend Easter in London with Aunt Sarah?”
Bran nodded. “Mother took Bea away for the final months, and Father didn’t want to be left with you running around underfoot.”
Jory couldn’t believe it. He could still remember the rush of hurt and bewilderment when Aunt Sarah came to pick him up from school instead of his mother, and told him only that his parents had thought it best that he didn’t go home. He’d been devastated at not seeing his best friend from Porthkennack, Patrick.
By the time summer holidays came around, Patrick had found a new best friend. One who wouldn’t be away for the greater part of the year.
And Bea had been . . . Well. Bea. Perhaps a bit quieter than before? Jory honestly couldn’t have said. Maybe Bran had been a little angrier—but then he’d never had a great deal of patience with his much younger brother in any case. “What about the baby?”
Bran shrugged. “Given up for adoption, obviously. She really should have got rid of it, but you know how girls that age are about babies.”
It. As if it hadn’t grown into a young man since then.
Christ. Jory had a nephew only seven years younger than he was. That was less than the age difference between Jory and the twins. And the barmaid at the Sea Bell was that nephew’s sister, and Mal—the young man Jory had been interested in—was his best friend.
Jory didn’t often drink, but right now he felt the situation justified it. He marched out of the study without another word and headed straight for the dining room, which was where Bran kept his very expensive single malt whisky.
Bran wouldn’t be happy about Jory drinking it, which would make it taste all the sweeter. Christ, he’d known Bran was . . . how he was, and of course Bran didn’t have any children of his own, but how could even he be so callous about this poor unwanted child? Jory grabbed the decanter, poured himself a generous few fingers of whisky and tossed back a gulp. Smooth as it was, the burn of the alcohol didn’t hit him until after it had gone down. Jory shuddered and put the glass down, blinking a little. Maybe he’d drink the rest later.
Maybe he’d chuck it down the sink. He needed to think what he was going to do.
He was still sitting there when Bea returned home.
Jory heard her get in before he saw her. Not because he’d been listening for the door, but because Bran didn’t catch up with her until she was directly outside the dining room, and angry whispers tended not to stay whispers for long.
They came in to talk to him together, as they always did. Jory had often wondered how much of the united front was just that—a front—but they were no closer to giving anything away tonight than they ever were. The whisky churned uneasily in Jory’s stomach. He wished he’d finished his pasta instead.
Bea spoke first. She had what Jory thought of as her networking clothes on: a sleek, expensive navy dress that still looked crisp and uncrumpled despite the heat of the day. “We’re not going to fight about this.”
“Nice of you to let me know,” Jory snapped back.
“You’re making a fuss about nothing,” she carried on coolly. “The matter was dealt with last year.”
“The matter. That’s an interesting way to refer to your own flesh and blood.” Chair legs scraped against the stone floor as Jory stood without conscious decision.
Bran stepped forward, putting himself between Jory and Bea. As if Jory were a threat, for Christ’s sake. “Don’t you think Bea’s suffered enough in all this, without you adding to it?”
Guilt stricken, Jory slumped back down into his chair, his head in his hands. “I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
He heard a chair being pulled out beside him, then Bea’s cool, even voice. “We thought you had enough on your plate, what with Gawen’s troubles.”
Jory’s head snapped up. “And what about Gawen? Don’t you think he deserves to know his cousin?”
“No.” Her tone was firm and final. She softened it when she spoke again. “There would be no advantage for Gawen in getting to know Devan Thompson. How is Gawen, by the way? I haven’t seen him for a while. Is the schoolwork still going well?”
It was a blatant attempt to change the subject. Jory hated himself, a little, for succumbing to it. “Very much so. He’s pretty much certain to get the maths prize this year.”
“And Kirsty?”
“She’s fine.”
“And are the two of you any closer to . . .?”
She left it hanging. Jory looked away. “I wish you’d leave that alone. It’s not going to happen.”
“But if you—”
“Just leave it, all right? How do you think you’d feel if it was you and this Devan’s father?”
Bea recoiled as if he’d slapped her.
Jory felt as wretched as if he had. “Oh God, Bea, I’m sorry—”
Bran was gathering Bea up from the chair like a child, and she was letting him. “Christ alone knows why you even bother to live here with us,” he snapped, his tone clipped and vicious. “You’ve got no sense of family, of obligation . . .”
Jory couldn’t look at his sister as he stumbled from the room. He needed to get out of the house—he couldn’t breathe in this place. Almost without conscious decision, he found himself outside the back door, staring over the old kitchen garden, where he could dimly remember his mother tending her fresh herbs.
Bran had had it grassed over years ago. Jory had been vaguely surprised he hadn’t just poured on concrete; after all, even lawns required a bare minimum of nurture.
The path behind the house was an old friend, leading up to the pinnacle of Big Guns Cove, where the cliffs jutted proud into the sea, jagged rocks guarding their base like merciless sentinels. The clifftops calmed him, as they always did. Perhaps it was because Bea and Bran never came this way. How many Roscarrocks had stood here before him, maybe watching for a light or a glimpse of sail that told them their ships were coming home, laden with spoils?
Jory stood for a long moment right on the edge, staring down at the waves far, far below as they crashed on the rocks, sending up bursts of spray. He crouched down, wanting to feel the scrubby grass, softer than it looked beneath his fingertips, the crumbling of the cliff edge as he ran his hand over and down onto the stone. Gulls shrieked around him. The souls of dead fishermen, he’d been told, but just as likely, those of long-gone smugglers and pirates, or hapless sailors, their ships lured onto the rocks by a falsely smiling lantern.
He’d often thought of getting his climbing gear out of the old stables and abseiling down these cliffs . . . but he could picture Bea’s and Bran’s faces, and knew he’d never do it.
Up here, he felt far closer to his father than he ever had when the old man had been alive. Perhaps he’d been more of a family man when the twins were small, but to Jory he’d always been a distant figure, stern and, if not quite disapproving, always seeming on the verge of it. So different from his friend Patrick’s father, who’d played cricket with them on the beach, flown kites, and let the smaller children ride on his shoulders.
Perhaps bad parenting was in the blood. Or perhaps the Roscarrocks had simply never learned how it should be done.
Jory turned to look back at the house, solid and unchanging for centuries.
No. He wasn’t going to do this Bea and Bran’s way.
He was going to seek out this Devan Thompson, and . . . be an uncle to him.
Whatever that might mean.