Wednesday dawned grey and misty, although not as foggy as the contents of Morgan’s head. How many had he put away the evening before? Too many, judging by the headache and the empty bottles on the kitchen drainer. It was a surprise he hadn’t had another attack of vertigo as he’d staggered from his bedroom this morning, bleary-eyed and none too steady on his feet.
Had Dominic also taken refuge in beer? Morgan didn’t want to think about Dominic, given the hole he’d left behind him in both heart and bed.
Morgan had work to do, but couldn’t face it, and he didn’t fancy going out anywhere given the state of the weather, much less the state of his mind and his inner ears. The thing that nagged him most was the need to see his mother, irrespective of what the nursing home sister had said about staying away until he was well. For once his motive wasn’t guilt; although whether he primarily wanted to ask her about the ship dream or grab some crumb of comfort—reassure himself that somebody still loved him—he wasn’t sure.
He wouldn’t check his phone to see if Dominic had texted. He wouldn’t check his inbox for a message from the bloke. He’d made his bed, and he was going to have to lie in it, empty or not.
Morgan managed to get to lunchtime using the same technique he’d used after James’s Dear John letter. Get through ten minutes, then another ten. Don’t think about ships or nightmares or Dominic, no matter how much they want to invade your mind. Don’t think about living the rest of your life on your own. He ate a lunch, of sorts, not having been able to face anything other than water and a plain cracker at breakfast, and the cracker had only been to line his stomach before he took two ibuprofen.
The roads to the nursing home were half-term busy, but for once Morgan didn’t mind, glad to be taking it slowly in case he got dizzy again, and also grateful for something to help fill the interminable day. The car felt empty without Dominic by his side; strange how the bloke had so quickly got himself under Morgan’s skin, so soon become part of the fabric of his everyday life. Morgan stared at the traffic ahead.
Don’t think about Dominic.
Once he was through the doors of the nursing home, his favourite nurse greeted him with a cheery smile. A pretty, capable girl, with a deep West Indian accent and an unflappable air about her, she exuded calm—spending time in her presence soothed patients and visitors alike.
“Good afternoon, Christine.”
“Hello, Mr. Capell. You’ve brought the sunshine with you.”
“I try my best.” Morgan smiled. “Glad that sea fog burned off. How’s Mum today?”
“She’s having quite a good day. Sitting out in the garden clicking away merrily.”
“Clicking?”
“Her knitting.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Being thick.”
“You’re allowed.” The nurse smiled and let him get on.
Morgan found his mother seated in her favourite part of the garden, creating something fluffy out of white wool. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d concentrated so intently on a task.
“Hi, Mum.” He waved as he strolled along the path that weaved through spring-bright flower beds.
“Hello, love. Come and sit here, in the sun.”
“What are you making?”
She held up the fruits of her labours. “It’s a matinee jacket. One of the nurses here is expecting her first grandchild.”
It wasn’t the best matinee jacket he’d ever seen, but he nodded enthusiastically. She’d clearly retained some of her skills. “It’ll be lovely. You carry on with it while we chat.”
“You used to do that when you were a boy. Natter away as I knitted.”
“I remember.” Maybe the familiar, repeated movements of her fingers were refiring neurons somewhere in her mind, triggering memories that had long lain dormant. They chatted calmly about a favourite scarf she’d made for him when he was nine, how he’d worn it all one winter until it had been so disgusting she’d had to steal it from him so it could be washed. How it had never quite been the same soft, comforting item again, and he’d been in a right temper about it.
“You always were a changeable boy. One minute bright as the sun and the next moody as anything.” She tapped his arm before setting about another row of stitches.
“Was I?” Then nothing had changed.
“Oh, yes. Like your pal Derek.”
“Derek?”
“The one with the feckless mother. Remember his jumper?”
“I do. She put his favourite sweater in their new washing machine, and it came out half the size.” Morgan grinned in recollection.
His mother giggled. “He was that upset, wasn’t he? How we laughed about it later.”
Derek still laughed about it now, on the occasions they ran into each other at the pub. Morgan would have to remember to tell him what she’d said; he’d always got on well with Mum. “He had a great big teddy bear, remember? Mr. Smudge. He put the jumper on it. His kids play with it now—right beaten-up old thing it is—but he won’t have it any other way.”
“He always was daft.” She finished her row, concentrating on the stitches. “Him and his pirate captains. The pair of you dashing round the garden, pretending you were brave.”
“Oh yes. I’d forgotten.” Derek had gone through a phase where everything was Ooh aar! and Avast me hearties, not that either of them knew what avast meant. Even Mr. Smudge had been made to wear an eye patch. Talking of pirates, albeit teddy bear ones, provided an unexpected opportunity to broach the subject of ships. “I wonder if he dreamed about shipwrecks?”
“I beg your pardon?” She looked up from her knitting.
“I wonder if Derek dreamed about shipwrecks, seeing as he was so mad on pirates. I once had a nightmare about a ship sinking.”
“Did you, love?” She laid her needles down in her lap. “That’s funny. I think I used to dream about the same thing. It was horrible.”
“I bet it was. Can you remember anything about it? Some of the details?”
“I don’t know. I think the ship got driven onto the rocks, but . . .” Voice faltering, she dropped her knitting entirely and grabbed hold of Morgan’s arm. “I can’t remember, Morgan. Why can’t I? What’s happening to me?”
“It’s all right.” He patted her hand, unsure of what to do. She’d not had one of these panic attacks for a long time: the first had been heartbreaking to deal with and this was hardly any easier.
Christine appeared from the open French doors, probably alerted by raised voices and agitated tones. She came over, making soothing noises. “There, there. How’s the knitting going, Ruth? It’s coming along lovely.”
Morgan’s mother held the matinee jacket up, staring at it blankly.
“She got a bit upset,” Morgan explained. The words were inadequate to the situation, as any might have been; he felt another wave of vulnerability assail him.
“Who’s that?” Mum laid down her knitting and jabbed a bony finger at the nurse. “Why am I being kept here? Why can’t I go home?”
“It’s Christine. You like her.”
The nurse pulled up a chair beside Morgan’s mother, patting her hand and making the inconsequential small talk they always used at the home when one of the residents became fractious. Morgan might as well have not been present, but he was determined to stay this time; he had questions to ask.
Eventually his mother settled again, taking up her knitting and ploughing on with it in silence. Christine rose, motioning for Morgan to follow her; he kissed his mum’s head, then did as instructed.
“Don’t upset yourself,” Christine said, once they were out of earshot. “It happens. She’ll be right as rain in a while. Or at least as right as we can hope for.”
“Thank you. For calming Mum down.” Morgan steadied himself with a deep breath. “Can I ask you something that’s going to sound odd?”
“Of course. Let’s go inside.” She led him into the conservatory, where they could watch his mother but not be seen by her. Mum’s mood seemed to have regained its former equilibrium as she chatted and sang to herself over her knitting, much as she’d always done.
“She seems happy again.”
Christine nodded. “She has her ups and downs every day, the way we all do. Although for her they’re exaggerated.”
“She was so placid at home. Before all this happened. She’s like a different person.”
“Yes. It’s hard seeing somebody you know change so greatly, but she’s fine here, honestly. We can deal with her needs much better than you could. Don’t feel guilty about it.”
“Am I that obvious?” Morgan had to smile. This was a conversation he should have had long ago, but there’d not been anybody who felt trustworthy enough—and far enough removed—to have it with. Harry was too close and Dominic . . . he was too valued. Now he was certain he couldn’t put Dominic through the same agony of guilt and distress.
“In my experience, it’s rare that anyone commits their parents into care without blaming themselves for not having done enough to help them. To keep them at home.” The nurse patted his arm, as though he was one of her charges. “She’d never be able to cope outside of residential care, not even in sheltered accommodation. Not without somebody’s eye on her all the time. For most families, that twenty-four-hour pair of eyes isn’t an option.”
“It could have been an option, for me. I work from home. I could have had the house adapted or something.”
“You could. And you might have been able to afford a nurse to come in to cover the times you couldn’t. If you were lucky, it might have worked out fine. Chances are she’d have become a growing worry to you. And a burden.” Christine’s voice became increasingly reassuring; she must have had this conversation many times. “You might have ended up hating your mother. We’re none of us saints.”
She was right. Despite working from home, Morgan wouldn’t have had his mother continually in his sight. She could have easily gone wandering, as had happened to an elderly neighbour of theirs twenty years ago. He’d managed to get out of a house which the family had believed secure, only to end up lunging himself out onto the main road, where a car hadn’t been able to avoid hitting him. How much guiltier would Morgan have felt under those circumstances?
“You visit her regularly, and she’s pleased to see you,” Christine continued. “It’s more than some people do. She often talks about you.”
“Does she?”
“Of course, although usually it’s as though you were still a little boy. Maybe that’s what you’ll always be in her mind.”
“It seems like it.” Morgan steadied himself with a deep breath. “Does she ever mention ships at all? Or a nightmare she once had about a ship? That’s what I was talking about when she got upset. I don’t want to ask her again in case it sets her off.”
Christine produced an unreadable smile. “Is it important?”
“Yes. Very. This is going to seem really stupid, but that dream seems to recur in our family, and I wanted to know when she had it and how often.” It did seem stupid, described in such stark terms, but how could anybody understand its significance if they hadn’t experienced the thing?
“It’s strange you should mention it. She’s spoken about that dream to me a few times. At first we thought she’d had the nightmare here, something to do with her medication or her mental state, but she’s adamant it happened when you were still young. That part of the story never changes.”
“What about the details of the dream? Are they always the same?” Morgan raised his hand. “Yes, I know, please bear with me. It’s an odd question, but I can promise you I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t matter.”
“Okay.” Shrugging, Christine smiled. “It’s the same story every time she talks about it. Which is odd, because she’s obviously not consistent about other things in her life. Apart from your dad’s old boss. She never changes the story about her.”
Morgan grinned. “Miss Charlton. When I was young, I used to imagine her as a real live dragon, blowing fire out of her nostrils. I suppose she was a bit modern for mum’s tastes.”
“If she’d been a Mr. Charlton and done the same things, it wouldn’t have been such a problem, I guess.” Christine laughed.
“Something like that.” At least Miss Charlton would never have been a rival for Dad’s affections. Morgan had recognised her likely inclinations as he’d gone through the process of understanding his own sexuality. “Sorry to harp on about this dream, but what does Mum say happens in it?”
“Oh, apparently it’s all very vivid, like something out of a film. A storm and a shipwreck, out on some rocks called . . .” Christine wrinkled her brow in thought. “The devil’s anchor?”
“The Devil’s Anvil.”
“Yes, that’s it. Such a horrible name. Is it a real place?”
“I’m afraid it’s all too real. As was the wreck. A ship called Troilus.” He had to force himself to speak the name, a feat he’d not had a problem with in what seemed an age.
Christine nodded, clearly impressed that another aspect of her patient’s story was correct, and seemingly unaware of Morgan’s discomfort. “Oh yes? I’m afraid I don’t know all the tales from round here. Maybe when I’ve been here long enough to be called a local, I’ll have a better idea.”
“You could live here fifty years and still be counted as a visitor, I’m afraid.” Morgan shook his head, ruefully. “No matter how well you knew the legends. Can you remember anything else she said about that dream?”
“Not really. Except that all the sailors were drowned except one who got washed up on the beach. Quite a story! She must have a powerful imagination.”
“She has. Storytelling runs in the family. That’s why I’m trying to pick apart the truth from any embellishment that might have happened along the way. I’ve had a similar nightmare, you see,” Morgan continued, in response to the nurse’s quizzical look.
“Ah, I see. How peculiar.” The crucifix that Christine wore round her neck—and the odd remark she’d dropped in the past about her faith—suggested she might have no time for a paranormal explanation.
“Yes. And from what you’ve said, it doesn’t simply sound similar. It’s almost exactly the same.” Except in his version there weren’t survivors. What the hell did that signify?
“Now that’s something.” Christine tapped the arm of her chair, theatrically. “Your mother was telling me that her mother had the same dream, about the same ship. And her mother before her. We didn’t believe such a thing could be true—the ladies here tell us the most amazing stories, so we’ve learned to take them all with a pinch of salt—but it seems we were wrong.”
“Sad to say, you were.” Morgan shivered, despite the warmth of the conservatory. “I had no idea she’d had that dream, not until yesterday, when a friend of the family mentioned Mother had told him about it. I thought it had only happened to me.”
“Maybe that nightmare runs in your family alongside the storytelling. Or because of it. You heard about your mother’s dream when you were too young to remember it, but it stuck somewhere in your brain. Like with her.” Christine tipped her head in the direction of his mother, who’d laid down her knitting and was slumbering peacefully. “Memories must be still in her brain somewhere, but they don’t come out in the right order or at the right time.”
“Hm. Maybe.”
“You don’t think that’s the explanation?”
“I have no idea. A . . . a friend suggested something similar, but it doesn’t ring true.”
“Why not? It seems the simplest explanation, rather than any old mumbo-jumbo.” She snorted. “What did your mother say when you had your nightmare?”
“Nothing. I mean, only the normal comfort for someone who’s had a bad dream. I didn’t want to go into the details at the time—I was young and scared, and I couldn’t think logically.” He wasn’t thinking a lot more logically as an adult. “I wish now I had spoken about it. Maybe I’d be able to understand what’s going on. But she clearly didn’t want to tell me about her dream, did she? Despite telling Harry.”
“Harry?”
“That friend I mentioned.”
“Ah.” Christine nodded again. “She must have been protecting you, in case you started worrying too much. Are you a worrier?”
Morgan had to laugh. “Guilty as charged. Although maybe I’m worrying about it because I don’t know.”
“Then nobody could win with you, could they?” Christine eased out of her chair, Morgan following suit. “I’m afraid I have jobs to do. Sorry I couldn’t be of further help.”
“You’ve helped a lot, honestly.” At least to clarify things if not to make them better. “And thanks for all you do with Mum. You connect with her when I can’t.”
“That’s years of practice.” She peered out into the garden again. “Go and kiss her before you leave. Don’t wake her if you don’t want to. She’s happy for the moment, and we should be grateful for these times.”
“We should. I’ll try to be.” Morgan fiddled in his pockets. “Thank you. For listening to me. It helps.”
“No worries.” Christine patted his arm. “See you again soon.”
“Yep. I’m like the proverbial bad penny. Always turning up.” He took a final look at his mother; he’d go and give her that kiss, careful not to wake her when she seemed so content, in case it upset her again.
Once in his car, he stared at the steering wheel, unseeing and with that tight knot of pain back in his stomach, turning over the conversation in his mind. If his mother’s account could be trusted, the thing he’d dreaded—that all the women who’d become prematurely senile had experienced the same nightmare—appeared to be true.
So where did that leave him?
Back at the house, Morgan wandered into the kitchen, wandered out again, went into the lounge, decided to flick on the telly, but couldn’t settle. Not even the schadenfreude engendered by the travel news and the thought of all the grockles stuck in traffic jams made him feel any better. He was at the loosest of loose ends, hovering at the point where he needed to occupy his brain with something other than dread, and stop him hitting another bottle or six of beer. Getting smashed the night before had done no harm to his balance, but he might not be so lucky next time.
That reminded him about his upcoming appointment with his GP; he saw no reason now why he should keep his promise to Dominic to go through with it, but he guessed he owed it to himself. Either his worst fears might be justified, or his mind could be put at rest, although the thought of the first outcome made him feel physically sick. That bloody dream had blighted his life for so long, and it seemed determined to keep on blighting it.
He stretched out on the settee, flicking onto an old episode of Poirot, and settled down for a doze. He didn’t need to make a decision about seeing the doctor until the day itself.
The unmistakable sound of a bosun’s whistle followed by a broadside going off roused him from sleep in a cold sweat. Had he been having the nightmare again, somehow without being aware of it? His relief of seeing that yet another repeat of Hornblower was being aired, following on from the murder mystery, was unbelievable. He turned the television off, not wanting to be reminded of ships, then went to make a cup of tea, although he couldn’t keep his thoughts away from Midshipman Lawson and Mary Lusmoore.
As he caught sight of the family picture on the wall, a flood of memories returned. Dad was interested in local history. He did all that stuff on Porthkennack bloodlines, remember? Morgan could recite the names: the Edes, the Quicks, the Roscarrocks, and all the rest, from the highly respectable to those you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Most of them had lived in the area since Noah came out of the ark, preserving the family genome away from outside influence.
Why couldn’t he have remembered his dad’s hobby sooner? Instead of legging it all round Porthkennack in search of the Lusmoores, they might have been able to turn something up in this very house. Was that oversight further evidence of Morgan losing it?
He’d try not to pursue that line of thought, not in the bleak mental state he already inhabited. He should do something practical; maybe poking about in the stuff his dad had left would be exactly the mindless pastime he was in need of.
And while Morgan couldn’t remember his father mentioning the Lusmoores as one of his targets, it was entirely possible he’d been on their trail, at least peripherally. All the old local families were interconnected. The only stumbling block was locating the research itself, because Morgan wasn’t sure where all Dad’s material had gone after his death.
He remembered having to go up into the loft to root out that stash of money his mother had told him about. There’d been a load of other stuff up there, mainly the typical debris of old carpets, suitcases, boxes, and the like. What if Dad’s old books and papers had been stuffed away up there? Not only would going through them give Morgan something positive to concentrate on, but clearing that old rubbish while he was about it would make him feel better. Nothing like slinging out a pile of physical crap to make the emotional crap sit more easily.
The loft proved pleasantly cool on an afternoon that had turned horribly clammy; unless the sweatiness of Morgan’s palms came from the state he was in. The electric light was bright enough to see but not read by, so the torch Morgan had taken up with him would be invaluable. The first suitcase he opened contained nothing but old clothes, possibly his grandparents’. That could go straight out to a charity shop or the local welfare project, preferably tomorrow morning, so it didn’t hang around making him think of his grandmother.
The second case was empty, apart from a collection of insects which had wormed their way in, as was the third. They’d be best sent straight to the dump, while he was en route to the charity shop—his thoughts turned to bats or deathwatch beetles and the many other nasty things he could find hidden away in forgotten places. He shone his torch up at the roof beams, but they seemed to be a flying-mammal-free zone.
The old handbag he’d found his mother’s stash of money in lay next to some old packing crates, but he wasn’t too eager to dispose of that bag while she was still alive; he couldn’t be that heartless. The packing crates themselves could be hopeful, though. The first was half filled with books, which was unusual given that there were several bookshelves round the house with gaps on them, so lack of storage space couldn’t have been the reason these volumes had been consigned to the loft. The most obvious explanation seemed to be that they were related to the serial hobbies Dad had indulged in, and been put away when his interest had changed. With a pang of sadness, Morgan found a history of the church he and Dominic had visited, probably the same book the bloke had been shown by the verger. After staring at it blankly, thinking of some old song about having something and losing it going through his mind, he placed the book carefully to one side of the stuff he was getting rid of. He could decide what to do with it later.
The second crate had no lid, only an old curtain laid across it, but on lifting it, he seemed to have struck gold. Dusty, dirty ring binders, a whole colony of them, all full of neatly filed, ring-reinforced pieces of paper. Paper which, on inspection, bore the unmistakably spidery handwriting of his father. Each binder was marked up with the name of one of the usual suspects—Ede, Roscarrock, all the boys in the band. If he really had struck gold, there’d be a Lusmoore file somewhere, and minutes later, in what felt an inevitable course of events, it turned up right at the bottom of the box, just as he was giving up hope.
Morgan pored through the pages, some sticking together due to the weight of the other families’ histories. He felt the same, crushed under the weight of stories and experiences, unable to pick apart the important from the irrelevant. Time to get back to his dad’s researches.
There was a fair amount of stuff that was no use to him, being far too recent in the Lusmoore timeline, but a large piece of yellowed paper, meticulously folded, caught his eye. A family tree, neatly written in old-fashioned ink, showed the line of the Lusmoores going back to where he wanted it. There was Mary and her parents: she was shown as being without husband or issue, although a pencilled-in question mark next to her name and something else next to that, indecipherable in this light, intrigued him.
If there was something about the Lusmoores, was there also something to be found about Lawson? He put the paper back in the file, preparatory to taking it downstairs for a proper going over.
Before doing that, he checked the other two packing cases: one contained nothing but watercolour painting stuff—Dad’s previous interest before getting the family-history bug—and the second seemed equally unpromising, being half full of football and theatre programmes. Morgan turned the top layer over, then realised the collection was much more eclectic. Among the souvenirs from Wembley and the London Palladium were tourist guides, local interest books, and oddities, like a brochure from Porthkennack’s celebration of the queen’s coronation. Should he keep them or add them to the pile of stuff for charity? The Oxfam bookshop liked to sell this type of stuff, but would making these breaks with the past make him feel any better or simply add to his burden of guilt?
Decisive for once, he tipped them out and began to sort, in case there was a gem among the dross. Among the old tourist guides and local interest books was a small, evidently self-published pamphlet by a Reverend George Morrison. It was dog-eared and faded, but the title was plain enough to read despite the dim light—The Unlucky Midshipman: a story of imprudent love and heinous treachery. That title, with the dramatic and likely inaccurate etching of a young ship’s officer below it on the cover, made Morgan grin. If Dominic were to write a book, he’d probably call it something similarly archaic and pompous.
Dominic. After all those bloody hours and days of trying not to think of James; now he’d got to stop thinking of him. Although wasn’t rummaging about in search of a midshipman—their midshipman as Morgan had so fatefully referred to him that evening they went out for a meal—keeping Dominic right in the forefront of his mind?
He packed the leaflet up inside the Lusmoore file, dumped the rest of the stuff back in the box, jumbling it all up again, then took his trophies downstairs, unsettled and no longer able to take pleasure in his rummaging. If it turned out he had found something relevant to Lawson, would he let Dominic know or would he sit smugly on the information, trying to keep his indignation warm? An indignation that had become decidedly tepid, anyway? If there was anybody he should be cross at, it was himself, for being such a bloody idiot all round.
That bottle of wine was calling, and a glass wouldn’t hurt so long as he resisted the temptation to put the whole bottle away. Maybe it would clear his head, hair of the dog and all that, although probably best to grab something to eat first. He transferred an instant meal from freezer to microwave, then laid a tray of cutlery and crockery on autopilot, trying not to think of how bleak such an always-catering-for-one existence would be for him if it became permanent.
He gazed out of the kitchen window, catching a glimpse of the Devil’s Anvil, the rocks appearing to form a great jagged smile to taunt him. Sod the rocks. Sod ships. Sod everything. He turned his back and got on with making his dinner, because that seemed about the only worthwhile thing he had to do at present.