The next morning didn’t prove as awkward as their first morning after had.
They’d found themselves comfy in each other’s arms, excited enough for a brief early-hours bout of what had gone on the night before. Dominic’s muscles had shown no after-effects from his slip, so the cautious edge to their lovemaking could be discarded.
Later, they’d shared the typical small talk that new lovers did, got up to make a pot of tea and a pile of toast, then taken it into the garden, wrapping themselves in blankets against the slight nip in the air. Dominic even managed to get through to draining the last dreg and scooping up the last crumb without once using the word sorry, despite the fact he’d nearly sent the teapot flying.
“Are you sure you want me to come with you this morning? I could make myself scarce if you’re having second thoughts.” Dominic stroked Morgan’s arm. “I wouldn’t be offended.”
“I know you wouldn’t. And I haven’t changed my mind. It’ll do Mum good to see somebody different, and she might remember something about the beams. It happens—some little gem of a fact gets dragged up from the vaults.”
“Fingers crossed for that, then.” Dominic kept his hand on Morgan’s arm, smoothing the skin. “Do you mind clarifying a couple of things for me?”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m sorry to ask, but I’m just trying to understand things better. About your mum.”
“Go on.” Morgan mentally braced himself.
“With Gran, the change came suddenly. Fine one week, next week on the slippery slope. Were there any early warning signs with your mum?”
Morgan should have expected a question like that, but it still felt like a slap to the face. “Are you suggesting I should be keeping an eye out for the same things in me?”
Dominic flinched. “Hey, don’t overreact. I did not mean that—what kind of a bloke do you think I am?”
“Mea culpa.” Morgan rubbed Dominic’s hand, trying to recapture the carefree emotions he’d felt earlier, before the reminder that all wasn’t well. “I try to be grown-up about the situation, but everything’s mixed up in my head.”
“And you think I’m not aware of that fact?” Dominic sighed. “My trying to help doesn’t seem to be working. Ignore the question.”
“No, I’d rather answer. The memory loss came on pretty quickly, like with your gran. There was a family history of it—my grandmother, and her mother before her—although I think we’d swept the whole business under the carpet. Blamed it on one thing or another and never on what it really was. Afterwards, when I thought it through, I wondered if we should have been on the lookout, and caught it as early as we could. There were signs, with hindsight, or at least there might have been.”
Dominic took Morgan’s chin and turned his face towards him. “The only bloody use of hindsight is learning from it. This situation isn’t going to repeat itself with any other family member, so you can’t. And if you’re feeling guilty because you didn’t get help for your mum, that’s no good, either. Even if you had spotted something, what could you have done, apart from throw everyone into a panic? We all have forgetful moments, we all do daft stuff and it doesn’t mean we’re losing our marbles. Overanalyse stuff and we’d all be shit scared that we’re on the slippery slope. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Yes, doctor.” Morgan rubbed his cheek on Dominic’s arm. “I like you. You’re such a beacon of sense in a fog of stupidity.”
“You’re not stupid. You’ve had a lot on your plate. It’ll be all right.”
They stayed there, letting the sun kiss their faces until Morgan could put off the inevitable no longer. “We need to get ready. It’s open visiting times at the weekend, so best to get my duty done, then we can enjoy the rest of the day.”
Dominic leaned in to kiss him. “You’re a good bloke, you know. Stop beating yourself up about everything.”
That was easier said than done.
The single part of Cornwall Morgan liked least would always be the drive from his house to the nursing home car park, and he’d never enjoyed forcing himself to leave the car and brave what was to come. He’d anticipated it would prove harder with Dominic in tow, but something about the guy’s presence was surprisingly calming. A living and breathing dose of tranquilisers.
As Morgan took the keys from the ignition, Dominic touched his arm, and said, “Last time I’ll ask this. Are you sure you want me here? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“Too right I do. I’ve had to face this alone too often.” A couple of times he’d gone with his brother until they’d decided—by mutual but unspoken consent—that it was too difficult, trying to juggle their own emotions and Mum’s and not snap at each other. She’d seemed to find it harder having them both there too. Please God she reacted well to Dominic.
“If at any time you want me to leave you two alone, then . . . mention Milton Keynes. I’ll say I have to get something from the car, and I’ll hang around out here for you.”
“That puts a whole new slant on having a safeword.” Morgan smiled, tension easing. “I really do appreciate this.”
“I won’t say it’s my pleasure. But I’ve been in similar places, as you know. It’s not easy.”
“That’s the understatement of the year. And we might be all right, if we catch her at the right time. There’ll be a whole ten minutes when you wouldn’t think anything was wrong. Sharp as a pin. And then all of a sudden she’ll say or do something, and you realise how helpless and vulnerable she is.” Morgan reached into the back for the bouquet he’d brought, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Dominic leaned against the car while Morgan locked it. “Childhood memories are the clearest for your mum, I suppose?”
“Usually. As if they’re the most securely embedded, or perhaps the easiest to access. I don’t understand why—I’m not sure anyone does.” He’d read up about it, talked to the doctors, but it felt like picking at the edges of comprehension. “Come on. I shouldn’t dawdle here.”
“Yep. You’ll feel better if we take the fence at speed.”
“You’re right.” Morgan stared at the nursing home, felt his arm being taken again, and so was across the gravel and in through the door before he could have second thoughts. Sign in at the desk, say hello to the staff, get through the security doors, walk along the corridor, go up in the lift, walk into the day room—it all felt easier on this occasion.
His mother was sitting in the sunshine, knitting needles and wool at hand but not being employed. Time was she’d been a great knitter, and Christine, the nursing sister, was always encouraging her to take it up once more.
“Hello, love.” She favoured him with a bright smile as he touched her shoulder. “Ooh, how nice.” She reached out with evident pleasure for the bouquet he offered. “They smell beautiful. I’ve always had a soft spot for freesias.” The beam took in Dominic. “Is this your friend?”
“It is. Dominic, this is Mum.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Dominic extended a hand, as though this were any other meeting.
“Lovely manners.” She shook his hand, enthusiastically. “Are the freesias your choice? Young Morgan’s not the best judge of flowers.”
“They were, but it was a lucky guess.”
“Then you’m got excellent taste.” As she spoke, the more the true Cornwall accent and dialect—never very noticeable to Morgan’s ears—came through. “Are you down here on holiday or is it business?”
“Dominic came to see the roof timbers,” Morgan cut in, amused at his mother fixing on the newcomer. She’d always had a soft spot for nice young men.
“The timbers from Troilus?” she asked, brightly.
“Ye-es.” Morgan had not expected such lucidity. “He’s doing some research into the ship’s officers. There’s one midshipman in particular that interests you, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” Dominic nodded. “His name was John Lawson. I don’t suppose the name rings a bell?”
“Little John Lawson? Oh, everybody knows about him.” She turned to Morgan. “Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t, Mum. Sorry to be so thick. Can you remind me?”
She glanced at Dominic, rolling her eyes, as if to say, See what I have to put up with?
“I’m sure it’s an astonishing story.” Dominic perched on the windowsill.
“It is. My mother used to tell me about him.” She smiled. “Only last week she mentioned his name.”
That last phrase seemed to knock all Dominic’s enthusiasm for six. “And what did she say?” he asked, tentatively.
“That Lawson was the only person who’d survived from the wreck. He was washed ashore in that bay, the one near the house. A local girl took a shine to the lad and insisted her family care for him. He was supposed to be a handsome chap,” she added, “almost as nice as you.”
Dominic, blushing, appealed with a grimace to Morgan for his rescue.
“What happened to Lawson, Mum? Did this girl whisk him off to the nearest preacher?”
“The little minx would have loved to. And don’t you go looking at me as if I’m talking nonsense.” She squirmed nervously in her chair. “I had the story from my mother and she’d had it from hers back almost to when Noah was a boy.”
“But did this girl succeed? In getting Lawson to marry her?” Morgan hurried the conversation on. If this was a genuine memory, they had to access it quickly.
“No, she didn’t. Cantankerous bitch tried to trap him, but she was foiled.”
Dominic cast an anxious glance at Morgan, who simply shook his head. When his mother used even the mildest of swear words, then they were on a slippery slope. Still, they had to press on. “So what happened to foil her? Did John Lawson run away?”
“John Lawson?” She turned to Dominic, then Morgan, alternating between the two like a spectator on the centre court at Wimbledon.
“Yes, John Lawson.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Is he a friend of yours?”
There seemed no point in continuing down that line. They changed the subject to knitting, but it became increasingly difficult to re-engage Morgan’s mother’s attention and, after a particularly long and painful period of silence, they said their good-byes.
They didn’t discuss the visit once they were back in the car. Morgan made sure Dominic had a map so he could find the back route, in order to avoid some road works which had popped up on the normal road to Porthkennack. That occupation and a stream of small talk kept them occupied all the way to their destination, but for the walk to the seat overlooking Barras Bay, silence took over again.
Eventually Morgan had to say something or burst.
“What a mess, eh? With Mum, I mean.” It was a beautiful day and the sun streaming over the pleasure craft in the distance should have raised their spirits, but Morgan’s mood was beyond the reach of the magic of sunshine and blue skies. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, any of it.” Dominic shivered, despite the mild weather. “God preserve us all from a frail old age.”
“I wouldn’t mind if she was old,” Morgan said, kicking at stones by his feet for want of anything else to vent his anger on. “She’s only in her early sixties. She should be in the prime of her life, like . . . like her.” He pointed at a slim, well-dressed woman, walking along the path, who must have been about his mother’s age, yet was evidently still full of zest. “It’s so bloody unfair.”
“Of course it is. Since when was life anything but?”
Silence reigned once more, broken only by the squawking of gulls, until Dominic piped up again. “Do you think she was simply humouring me with that stuff about Lawson surviving? I don’t want to be chasing wild gooses.”
“Geese.” Morgan smiled, despite his gloomy mood. “Trouble is I have no idea. I was there a couple of months back and she started to go on about some money she’d put in a box up in the loft. I thought it was nonsense, until one day when I was bored, and went up there. I found two hundred quid in a box. Exactly as she’d said. Next time I saw her and asked what she wanted me to do with the money, she stared at me like I was talking Urdu.”
“So maybe the story about John really is true. And if he survived, then Captain Watson couldn’t have conspired to kill him. Not sure how we’ll ever prove it, though.” Dominic flapped his hand at a seagull which had come a bit too close.
Morgan slapped his knees. “My uncle might know. Well, he’s not actually my uncle, just an old friend of Mum’s. I don’t see him as often as I should these days.” Too much awkwardness lurking there, her shade always in the room with them.
Dominic started, like a greyhound hearing the sound of the hare whizzing past the starting traps. “Do you think I should ask him?”
“It’s worth a shot.” Morgan tried to overcome the guilt he’d feel about turning up, out of the blue, to ask Harry Tressider a string of questions when he’d hardly made contact other than a Christmas card this last year. He told himself it was all for Dominic’s sake; he’d see if his conscience fell for it. “Come on. We won’t have far to find him, if we’re lucky. What does your mate Jack Aubrey say? There’s not a moment to lose!”
“I wish he was my mate,” Dominic replied, as they headed along the front. “Take that any way you wish.”
“Chance would be a fine thing. I bet young Lawson wasn’t as much of a looker as Russell Crowe.”
“If he was, no wonder that woman fancied him.”
The conversation about naval films—the good, the bad, and the downright ridiculous—lasted until they took a sharp left turn away from the sea towards a small side road.
“Does Harry like mountaineering?” Dominic grimaced at the sloping street in front of them.
“You’re out of condition. Get a move on.”
The terraced house up the back lane was neat, well-kept—and empty.
“I knew it would be too much like good luck.” Dominic, clearly unhappy at the uphill hike he’d had to make, kicked at the doorstep. “Things like this never work out for me.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Morgan said, pulling back from the door after his fourth attempt on the bell. “He’s a creature of habit, so if he isn’t here, then he’s down at the pub. The Sea Bell. Do you know it?”
Dominic shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Morgan whacked his arm. “It’s not far; enough of a walk to blow the cobwebs away. Downhill all the way, I promise.”
The Sea Bell was everything an authentic fisherman’s pub should be. A bit dark and dingy with nothing like the promise of live sport to entice in the grockles, but it had a decent reputation among the locals for serving proper beer and proper food. Morgan and Dominic were hardly through the door when a voice boomed through the air.
“Morgan, you tyke. What the bloody hell brings you here?” Harry came bounding over to give him a bear hug, almost cracking his ribs in the process.
“Researching family histories, for a start. Got a pal here, Dominic, who needs to pick a sensible brain. And, for another reason, the need to buy you a pint—I’ve put it off too long.” Hugely relieved at his reception, Morgan dug into his pocket for his wallet.
“That’s the sort of thing I like to hear.” Harry turned, offering his hand to Dominic. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And you.” Dominic took the large, gnarled hand, and shook it vigorously. “Any friend of Morgan’s . . . as they say.”
“Spot on. Now, Morgan, these family stories.” Harry winked at Dominic as they went over to the bar to get their order in. “Clean ones or dirty?”
“Ask him. He’s the one researching them. I’ll get the drinks.” Morgan caught the barman’s eye and placed his order.
“They’re clean, I hope, although if there’s scandal to be rooted out, don’t spare my innocent ears,” Dominic said.
He’s off again. Morgan shook his head. “What are you having, Dominic?”
“Sort Mr. Tressider out first.”
Morgan grinned. “Oh, I know what he’s drinking, unless the leopard’s changed its spots. A pint of Chough’s Nest. You’re the unknown quantity.”
“I’ll have a pint of Chough’s Nest too, please. Couldn’t come to Porthkennack and not indulge.”
The barman opened his mouth, but Harry cut off any comment by raising his hand. “None of your jokes about how he’s said it.”
Morgan clapped Dominic’s shoulder. “They like to tell the grockles they’ve said it wrong, however they pronounce it.”
“Ay, and you’ve spoken like a native, although I’m guessing you’re not from your accent.” Harry wrinkled his brow. “Where did you get a taste for the local brew? Don’t tell me they sell it up in London.”
“No such luck. We used to come here on holiday, years ago. When I was a little boy my greatest ambition was to return as an adult and have a pint of what my father and uncle always drank. Thanks,” Dominic added, as Morgan passed him his pint. “I’d been allowed a sip from their glasses when my mum wasn’t looking and always had a hankering for more.”
“And did it live up to expectations?” Morgan gestured at the barman to pour another pint for Harry, and one for him.
Dominic rolled his eyes. “Isn’t the answer obvious, if I’m still ordering it? We didn’t drink here, though.”
“Very few visitors do.” Once the other beers were on the bar, Harry picked up his own glass, then led them to the table he was ensconced at, commanding a view of the street. “This story you want, I assume young Morgan here failed at providing it for you?”
“I’m afraid that’s right, although he helped me along the trail.”
Morgan suddenly saw a potential problem, looming large, one he should have foreseen before haring off here. Dominic was bound to mention his mother and her story about Lawson. He and Harry had never properly discussed Mum’s condition, both of them finding it too painful to tackle beyond a superficial level. He wasn’t ready for a heart-to-heart here and now, but it turned out he’d underestimated Dominic. Again.
“It’s about the Troilus. I’m researching the wreck, and I’ve run across a rumour that one of the midshipmen who’d sailed on her may have survived.” Dominic sailed on himself, with no mention of Morgan’s mother or her possible flights of fancy. Harry followed Dominic’s account of his interest in the ship, and John Lawson in particular, nodding and chipping in with questions as he went along. Dominic took a swig of beer before finishing up with, “The key bit is proving that he wasn’t murdered by the man who was probably his father.”
“Right, so what do you want from me?”
“I guess I was hoping you’d say ‘Aha, I know all about Lawson’ and go on to tell me what really happened.” Dominic frowned, like a child who’d opened the biggest box at Christmas only to find that some idiot had filled it with nothing but tissue paper.
Morgan couldn’t help leaping in, with a glance at Dominic to try to excuse the economy with the truth he was about to indulge in. “It’s my fault. I said I thought I’d heard some story, when I was a boy, about there being one survivor of the wreck. Bloke got himself entangled with a local girl or something. Maybe it’s my imagination.”
“No such thing.” Harry took a deep draught of beer, then waited. There’d always been a theatrical touch about the man, over and above his penchant for the girls who did the summer shows down in Newquay.
“He used to do this when we were little,” Morgan said, rolling his eyes at Dominic.
“What did I used to do?” Harry jabbed Morgan in the ribs.
“Arse about. Tell us half a story, then leave us waiting for the tagline. Pretend that you didn’t know it was our birthdays and then produce a present. Be generally annoying.”
“If we’re bandying insults, then maybe I’ll forget all about that story.” Harry, winking at Dominic, was clearly having a whale of a time, irrespective of the months since Morgan had last been in touch.
“You know you won’t. Once I’ve suffered long enough, you’ll tell us everything.” Morgan gave an exaggerated yawn. “He doesn’t keep up the pretence for too long. He thinks the world of us, really.”
“Maybe I think the world of you. I’ll reserve verdict on your brother.” Harry took another draught of beer. “Right. John Lawson. Are you sure the story you’ve got concerns him and not someone else?”
“That’s what the ship’s muster says.” For the first time, when talking about the Troilus, Dominic seemed uncertain. “Is there some dispute?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s not quite the name I heard about. Rawson, not Lawson. I suppose it could simply be a case of Chinese whispers.”
Funny how Harry didn’t sound quite so rough and ready, so deep inside his Cornish accent, as he’d done when they’d entered the pub. This must be serious stuff.
“Maybe.” Dominic’s brow furrowed. “Or there was some deliberate subterfuge at work. Perhaps he changed his name to distract attention from himself.”
“Why would he do that?” Morgan asked, but the wheels of communication didn’t need oiling. Harry and Dominic had clicked; he sat back and listened, enjoying the show.
“How can we tell at this far a remove?” Harry ran his index finger along the edge of the table. “Trouble is we don’t know too much for certain when you get into this research lark. All you’ve got to go on is dusty old records and stories that have been passed down and embroidered in the retelling. They say that Rawson—Lawson, whoever—was rescued by a girl and her father. She set her cap at him.”
Dominic gave Morgan a satisfied glance; so some of his mother’s memories were still spot on. “What happened? Did he manage to evade said cap?”
“So the story went. They say he upped and did a moonlit flit, got himself onto a fishing boat or other craft at the harbour and she was left with a broken heart.” Harry finished the last of his beer and put the glass down with a thump. “Which is a load of nonsense, of course.”
“She dumped him, or something?” Morgan asked, finishing his own beer and regretting that having to drive home meant that another pint wasn’t going to be a good idea.
“Maybe. Maybe dumped him over a cliff.”
“What?” Dominic, who’d started to slump in his chair under the mellowing influence of Chough’s Nest, sat bolt upright.
“Or perhaps she just lured him into a nice inaccessible cave—promise of delights to come and all that—and then stabbed him.” Harry beamed, as though he were telling some hilarious joke, although it was clear he was in deadly earnest. “She murdered him and told everyone he’d gone off and left her forlorn. No wonder they never found him.”
“And it would explain why there’s no record of him later in life, which is how the murder conspiracy started in the first place.” Dominic sipped his beer, pensively. “Is there any official record of events here? Was she brought to trial?”
“Was she, my arse. She lived into a wicked old age, scaring all the children—they thought she was a witch, and maybe they were right.” Harry got up. “Another drink?”
“Half for me, please. And the rest of the story, on the side.” Dominic sounded unusually forceful—although maybe that was Chough’s Nest’s doing.
“Half for me too,” Morgan added, feeling like a bit of a spare part when the other two were getting on so well. “Want a hand?”
“I had my hands full of pints when you were barely out of nappies. I’ll manage.”
“Do you think this story’s true, or is he winding me up?” Dominic whispered, when Harry was out of earshot. “And if he isn’t, how has he come across this story of her killing Lawson?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Morgan wrinkled his nose. “That story could be true, you know. Handed down from father to son like the tale of our beams was. Or at least it could be the case that Harry believes it to be true, which may not be exactly the same thing.”
“If there’s a chance there’s a speck of authenticity in this story, I have to know about it.” Dominic’s mouth had a determined set again, that “greyhound in the slips” expression which seemed to come any time something new cropped up. “Even if I can research the story to prove or disprove it once and for all. That ship means a lot to me.”
Morgan stared out at the harbour. “She means a lot to me too.” He turned, to see Harry returning, hands full. “Thanks for these. We’re glad you’re back, and not on account of the beer. We’ve got unanswered questions. Did the lovelorn girl and our young sailor produce any issue, do you know?”
“I don’t have the foggiest. Parish records might have something, though.”
Dominic nodded. “That’s where I’d be inclined to look next. I’d want to find out as much as I can about her, too.”
“I can help with that. She was called Mary Lusmoore. The family still live round here but I’d steer clear of them.” Harry dropped his voice. “Always been troublemakers.”
“How the hell do you know that?” Dominic asked.
“Everybody knows they’re troublemakers,” Morgan confided.
“I’ll take your word for that, but I was asking how you knew her name.”
Harry shrugged. “When I was a boy, my granddad used to say that if I didn’t behave myself, old Mary Lusmoore would get me and tip me over the cliff.”
Morgan and Dominic shared a swift glance; this was either the most useful—and peculiar—lead, or Harry was playing a trick of epic proportions on them.
“Oh, come on.” Morgan shook his head. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“You never met my granddad. And anyway, maybe the Capells didn’t know the tale.” Harry turned to Dominic. “This is a Tressider saying.”
Morgan still wasn’t convinced. “We’ll see if we can find out at the museum. They’ve got a library of local history.”
“You do that.” Harry didn’t seem perturbed that his word was being questioned. “They’ll have all sorts of things you might want to read, youngster.”
Dominic nodded. “I’ve been there once, but that was only to look at the sea stuff. I need to explore the land side.”
“Well, don’t spend all your time with a nose in dusty old record books. That’s no way to live your life. Enjoy it while you can.”
“I will.” Dominic gave Morgan a fleeting smile. “I promise.”