The first Saturday in May brought a mellowing of the weather. May Day weekend had obviously decided to put on a show, with sunshine predicted as far as the BBC’s weather forecasters dared to go and, for once, it appeared they’d got it right. Morgan had spent a few hours in the garden on Friday evening, tidying up the last of the spring flowers in the semi-wild border and encouraging the early bedding to get itself established.
Saturday morning, Morgan decided to tidy the house. He might only be having Dominic as his guest once, but Mum would have insisted Dominic see Cadoc at its best. The beams got a thorough going over with a feather duster, surprising some of the spiders which had taken up residence, and the whole place—never really that dirty or untidy—shone like a new pin. It was good to have something, or somebody, to spruce the house up for; it had been too long since Morgan had done any entertaining.
When Morgan had his music on loud, the doorbell tended to be drowned out, so he’d resisted any temptation to have the hi-fi on this morning. He’d given Dominic clear directions to the house, Cadoc being tucked away at the end of a little Cornish lane, parts of which appeared to be almost impassable to the untrained eye. The scan of the map which he’d tucked in the envelope would prove more reliable to Dominic than anything he could download from Google.
He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the bloke. Poor, fanatical thing, getting excited over half a dozen lumps of wood.
You’re doing it again.
Catching himself thinking as James might have thought sparked off a bout of guilt which, in turn, produced a resolution to make his guest a pot of really good coffee. He’d also planned a lunch of soup, sandwiches, and a plate of Waitrose biscuits, from when he’d stocked up.
Late morning, the doorbell went off with its horribly insistent tone. Morgan smoothed his hair and put on a smile—the best smile he could manage on a day when he’d woken at five o’clock in the morning and not managed to get back to sleep. The fact his waking had interrupted an erotic dream involving James hadn’t made things any easier.
He was bloody glad he’d made some effort on his appearance when he glimpsed the vision of hotness through the hall window. This had to be a lost surfer boy or someone who’d come to the coast to find himself a job as a lifeguard and got hopelessly off track. It couldn’t be Dominic, because blokes like this didn’t usually knock on the door of Cadoc for any legitimate reason.
Morgan hesitated, hand on the doorknob. If real life was like a gay romance book, this would be Dominic and they’d bond over a discussion of James, one full of shared hatred for the bloke. The next minute they’d be taking a romantic walk on the beach, and maybe tonight they’d drag each other up the stairs and . . .
The doorbell rang again, and Morgan realised he was still standing fantasising. He opened the door in a rush just as “surfer boy who might be Dominic” had turned to go back down the path.
“Sorry I took so long,” Morgan said, as brightly as he could manage.
“I thought there was nobody in.” Surfer Boy smiled, which reignited memories of last night’s dream. Morgan squirmed. “There’s a guy here to see you, only he’s gone off to take some pictures, and he asked me to come over and say he’d arrived.” Surfer Boy waved airily at a bright-red hire car, parked next to the gate.
“Are you a friend of his?” Surely this couldn’t be Dominic’s boyfriend, although his twin brother would be a good outcome.
“No. We met on the plane, and when he heard where I was heading, he said he’d give me a lift so I didn’t have to wait for a bus. My girlfriend lives up on the main road.” Surfer Boy grinned, looking stupidly handsome, more so for being unavailable. “Stroke of luck on my part. Eh?”
“It worked out well.” Morgan sighed as he scanned the line of the hedge. “Has your chauffeur gone walkabout?”
“Probably. He seems a bit of a fanatic; he’s got a bee in his bonnet about ships or timbers or whatever. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I bet he’s seen an interesting piece of wood and gone to take a sample or whatever.” Surfer Boy—straight, unavailable surfer boy—smiled again, then adjusted his backpack. “Right. Unless I want a dose of earache, I’d better be on my way. Bye.” He turned on his heels and walked off down the path towards the gate, duty done.
“Bye,” Morgan answered, watching him go and wondering why life was never like gay romance books.
There was still no sign of the elusive Dominic. Maybe he’d fallen down a rabbit hole or over the cliff? Morgan stood on the doorstep contemplating this for a good minute before he twigged it was a real, and not very amusing, possibility. People did go arse over tip at the end of the lane, unless they realised in time that they needed to slow down and make a sharp left to carry on along the coastal path, which had been meandering inland. And if the terrain was slippery with mud or they went too far arse over tip, then they’d end up right by the cliff edge, if not over it.
Morgan didn’t quite break into a run, but he made it through his garden, out of the gate, and into the road at a lick. He didn’t want to seem to be in a panic, especially if he ran into his guest a short stretch down the lane; there was a limit to how much of a plonker even he was prepared to appear. There was no sight of the bloke anywhere this side of the cliff path, and no sound of him either. Morgan picked up his pace, although he didn’t call out. It wasn’t simply a case of saving face—if Dominic, or anyone else come to that, was too near the edge, the shock of a sudden noise could be enough to make them start.
He’d reached the end of the lane, where the hedges stopped and the path turned through its sharp angle, when he saw a lanky figure, camera in hand but not to eye, peering out over the sea. If this was Dominic, at least he had the sense not to position himself right at the edge, especially as he looked like a hefty gust of wind might well blow him off his feet. Quite a contrast to the surfer boy he’d sent to pass on his message.
“Dominic Watson?” Morgan waved, then came closer, appraising his guest with every step, and trying to hide his disappointment.
“That’s me. You must be Morgan.” Dominic held out his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t come directly to the house. I wanted to see the place.”
“No problem. I got your message.” Morgan resisted all temptation to say and I approve of your choice of messenger. He knew nothing about Dominic apart from the enthusiasm for ships. It could be the bloke was rabidly homophobic, his meeting with James notwithstanding—the rat sometimes talked to straight blokes, and not just about business, especially if he thought he had a chance of temporarily converting them.
“That would be Tim. Note I didn’t add ‘nice but dim,’ although I admit I thought it.” Dominic grinned. “I met him on the plane from Gatwick. Lovely lad, but hardly the sharpest pencil in the box. I’m glad he managed to find the right house.”
“I’ll take your word for his mental faculties.” He wouldn’t mention his appearance. Morgan smiled, staring out towards the Devil’s Anvil, although he didn’t mention the rocks, either. Nor the wreck. The Anvil wore its harmless face now, barely other than a gentle hog’s back of stone breaking the waves. Come low tide, the needles of rock—widow-makers, each one of them—wouldn’t be quite so inviting. No wonder they’d stationed the local lifeboat nearby. “We’ve laid on lovely weather for you, anyway. It was thick with fog yesterday. It said on the radio that they’d had to shut the airport.”
“So I heard. I’ve been keeping an eye on the website, was worried sick I wouldn’t be able to get here. Even thought about tackling the A303 and driving down with all the world and his wife and kids.” Dominic grimaced. “Glad I didn’t have to. Nobody wants to risk getting stuck in a twenty-mile tailback over Salisbury Plain. Still, that would be better than if you lived on Jersey and they shut the airport. Then I’d have to take a boat.”
“You’re not a good sailor?”
“You can say that again. I feel sick on the Thames.” Dominic’s grimace turned to a grin. “Come to think of it, I feel sick on the boating lake at the park.”
Morgan studied him, sideways on. Now he’d got the image of Tim out of his mind and overcome his initial disappointment, it was clear he’d done Dominic a disservice. He must have been the right side of thirty, and wasn’t a bad-looking bloke, in a “tenth Doctor Who” sort of way. Built for speed rather than comfort, all angular edges. It wouldn’t be too much of a burden to entertain him for an hour or two. “So what makes you so keen on ships if you can’t bear travelling on them?”
Dominic gestured vaguely out to sea. “Haven’t you read any of the Hornblower stories? He was sick at Spithead but it didn’t stop him becoming an admiral.”
“I have read them. Some, anyway. And seeing as you don’t seem to be in the navy, then you’ve not really answered my question.”
“Guilty as charged.” Dominic made a naval salute. “I have to get my nautical thrills secondhand. I’ve always been fascinated with the Age of Sail, from the day my parents took me to see Victory. I fell in love with her.”
They both gazed out over the sea again, where a pleasure boat had rounded the tip of the headland, speeding off in search of dolphins or puffins or some other wildlife to observe; despite its smooth, elegant contours, it couldn’t compare to a ship of the line. Perhaps in Dominic’s mind’s eye he’d a vision of masts and sails and running out the great guns.
“I soon discovered I’d never be able to handle anything more maritime than a sand yacht, so I had to immerse myself in the history. The real-life stories.” He turned back, eyes ablaze with enthusiasm. “Occasionally I hope I’ll wake up one morning and find myself transported off somewhere through space and time.”
Morgan took a deep breath. “Sounds like Doctor Who and his TARDIS,” he replied, wishing he could be brave enough to say, you wouldn’t want that in reality, believe me.
“A TARDIS would be fine so long as I could opt out of meeting the Daleks. They scare me stiff. And I don’t want to discover other worlds. There’s enough here to keep me happy.”
“I suppose landing up in the middies’ mess on the Victory would feel like being on Mars.” Morgan grinned. Dominic was exactly what he’d expected: priceless. “And if you did fetch up there, wouldn’t you be plastering it with the contents of your stomach?”
“Probably. But in my imagination I don’t have seasickness— that’s the beauty of daydreams. Right.” Dominic rubbed his hands together. “Would it be rude of me to ask if I can come and see those roof beams while the light’s still as good as this?”
“Not rude at all. Isn’t that exactly what you came here for?” Morgan pointed towards the house. “Come on. I’ve got a bite of lunch ready for us.”
“It gets better and better.” Dominic slipped into step alongside Morgan. “I’ve not had anything since an early breakfast. Too excited. What my mother used to call butterflies in the stomach.”
“I hope they’ve fluttered off enough for you to get your chops around some soup and sandwiches. There’s coffee going too.” Tim the surfer boy might have been offered a slab of chocolate cake. Among other things, if he’d been inclined and this had been that bloody romance book.
“There’s always room for soup and sandwiches. Is it homemade? The soup, I mean?” Dominic smiled. He had a pleasant, lopsided smile that transformed his everyday type of face into something downright handsome. If Morgan could think of enough things to keep the bloke smiling, then the next few hours could be enjoyable.
“I’m afraid it isn’t. Waitrose fresh packed, so at least it’s not from a tin.” Morgan opened the gate to his garden. “I did make the sandwiches myself. Here, come and see this. It’s supposed to be from the wreck—part of the ballast.” Funny how he’d almost forgotten about the ballast stone, although he passed by it almost every day. It was part of the wallpaper for him now, too familiar for special notice.
They positioned themselves either side of a large boulder that might once have been a bit of carved Bath stone or similar material.
“Blimey. Where was it found?” Dominic walked around the stone, then knelt down to explore it, tracing his fingers along each line and crevice.
“On the beach, about a week after the ship was lost, or so the family story goes, after an even fiercer storm than the one which took her down. It was found by my no-idea-how-many-greats-grandfather.” Morgan nodded. “You can take pictures of it, if you want, but I can’t vouch one hundred percent for its provenance. For all I know it was simply a case of my grandmother making up things to entertain us. She told a cracking story.”
“‘Us’?” Dominic had his camera out and was taking a stream of snaps, from every angle, in full sunlight and in the meagre shade of his own figure.
“My brother Eddie and I, when we were boys.”
“Does he still live here?”
“Good God, no. Porthkennack’s far too small and provincial for him. He’s in the City, making a mint.” Morgan shuddered—the prickling resentment he felt over Eddie must be coming over good and strong.
“He’s mad, then.” Dominic stood up, putting away his camera and scanning the view. “I’d give my eyeteeth to live here; big improvement on Surrey. Would have done since I was a child and arsed around with a net in the rock pools. We came and stayed along this coast every year.”
“Is that where your particular interest in Troilus comes from? Running across the story of the ship when on holiday?” Things were starting to make sense. Morgan could imagine this strange young man as a strange little boy, poking about in the tourist shops, finding one of the many slim, self-published books aimed at the visiting trade. Sitting in his deckchair reading, fascinated, about the wrecks Cornwall had seen. The thought of a serious young Dominic poring through texts in the local library was oddly endearing.
“In a way. I can’t deny it’s important she’s connected to a place I’ve always loved.” Dominic sighed. “I didn’t know about the ship when I holidayed here, though. I wish I had—I could have found out further information about her. But when I started to research the wreck, facts about this particular ship rang a bell. I played on that beach down in the cove.” He grinned. “It was always a treat—my parents said it was our special place.”
“Lots of people stumble across that beach and think it’s their own.”
“I can imagine. Like stumbling across a piece of paradise. We always had it to ourselves, though.”
“That’s the benefit of a steep path. It stops all but the hardiest tourists. Come on, you need to see the beams.” They headed through the garden.
“I love these old houses.” Dominic looked up with clear envy at the gabled windows. “Have you always lived here?”
“Pretty well all my life except when I was at university and just after. Intend to stay here too.” Despite the sunshine, Morgan felt suddenly cold. That was what his mother had always hoped, that she’d live to a ripe old age in the house she’d come to as a bride; nowhere in the plan had there been room for seeing out her days in a nursing home. He quickened his pace, until they reached the front door.
“Then you’re a lucky man.” Dominic hovered, despite Morgan having opened the door and waved him inside. “Shoes off?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you want me to take my shoes off? So many people these days don’t want their carpets trodden on.”
“Blimey, no.” Morgan ran his hands through his hair. “Really? How bloody rude.”
“That’s what I think. Okay if it’s part of your culture, but I hate it when possessions take precedence over people.” Still, Dominic carefully wiped his shoes on the doormat. He glanced around the hallway. “It’s exactly how I imagined it would be from the outside. We used to rent a house similar to this when we were on holiday. There were half a dozen of us by the time Aunty Mary dragged her brood along, so we needed all the space we could get.”
There was probably a story to be told about that, given the exasperation in Dominic’s voice at the mention of Aunty Mary, but they wouldn’t go there now. Maybe if Dominic was staying in the area for a few days, they could meet up over a pint and talk about old times. And was that the lingering influence of Tim the surfer boy, getting Morgan’s hormones going?
“Come and see the beams,” he said, eager to get his head straight. “I was going to call them the ‘famous’ beams, only we’ve managed to keep them out of public view.” He opened the door to the kitchen. “They’re all through the lower part of the house. It’s not so usual to have them still exposed in these type of properties, but they’re an object for family pride.”
“As they should be. And how you’ve managed to keep stuff about them off the internet beats me. If I hadn’t run into James and the conversation turned in the right direction, I’d have been none the wiser.” Dominic got out his camera. “Is it all right to take pictures in the house as well? I’ll avoid getting anything in shot that might give away where we are.”
“That’s fine. The carpenter’s marks are clearer in the dining room, but the mast stepping in here is amazing.” Morgan pointed towards the top corner of the kitchen, to the left of the old fireplace.
“Fantastic.” Dominic beamed. “Bloody fantastic.” He started lining up his shots, much more carefully than he’d done with the boulder.
Morgan watched him. The enthusiasm was touching; Dominic clearly loved his hobby, with a schoolboy glee that could have come straight out of a nineteen sixties edition of The Beano.
Did he ping the gaydar? That depended on whether you had reliable gaydar to start with. A particularly embarrassing incident in a bar in Plymouth flashed into Morgan’s mind, one which had taught him not to leap to conclusions. Some women went mad for camp, and some guys would turn it on to impress them.
“I’ll get the soup on while you’re busy. The dining room’s through the hall. Make yourself completely at home.”
“Thank you. I’ll shout if I get lost or anything.” Dominic smiled and headed out the door, unlikely to go too far astray given how straightforward the layout of the house was. Morgan busied himself with the lunch, laying out crockery and cutlery on the breakfast bar. The dining room was out of bounds for eating, and not just because it presently was full of an enthusiastic Age of Sail fan with a roving camera. For as long as Morgan could remember, that room had been reserved for special occasions, big family Christmases, or intimate dinners à deux. He wasn’t sure he’d be seeing much of the latter anytime soon and the former had probably gone entirely by the board.
He glanced up from the stove at the picture hanging next to it. Him, James, Mum, and Dad—plus assorted relatives, including Eddie and his obnoxious girlfriend—the last time Christmas lunch had been served on the long dining table. Everyone seemed happy, even James, who wasn’t putting on a show for once. They’d all rubbed along together pleasantly enough, behaving themselves under Mum’s watchful eye.
He was going to have to find a different picture to replace it, one that didn’t remind him of boyfriends past, one that didn’t speak so relentlessly of happy times that were never to be recaptured. They’d had some fun back then, him and James. They’d shared a room with Eddie, more like schoolboys than men, sneaking beer and snacks upstairs and sharing blue jokes. Even James, who usually scoffed at such immature things, had seemed to enjoy himself.
There’d been no chance of hanky-panky—if the Capells turned a blind eye to whatever went on away from the roost, there’d be none of it going on under their roof.
“All done. Thanks.” Dominic’s voice shook Morgan out of his dream. How long had he been standing there, lost in remembrance of things past? Enough time for the soup to have started sticking on the bottom of the pan, anyway.
“My pleasure. Only I’m not sure this soup will be yours.” Morgan whipped the pan off the stove before cautiously stirring the contents. “No, might be okay, after all. Perhaps we’d better eat it before I can ruin it further.”
He poured the soup into the bowls, then fetched the plate of sandwiches from the fridge.
“Feast fit for a king,” Dominic said, looking at the food with evident delight and not the slightest hint of sarcasm. “That’ll see me right through to dinnertime.”
Morgan grinned. “Wait until you’ve tried it before you say that.”
They got stuck into the meal, Morgan glad to find the soup really hadn’t been ruined and surprised to discover how hungry he’d become. They ate pretty much in silence, passing the odd word about how reliable Waitrose was, what a pain it was to have to go all the way to Okehampton to visit the store, and whether Dominic would prefer his coffee white or black.
With his stomach having stopped rumbling at last, Morgan got up to pour their drinks. “Are you staying overnight?”
“Yes. Halfway between here and Padstow. Through to Monday.”
“Oh, right.” May Day bank holiday—a lot of people would be making a long weekend of it and the roads back east would be chock-a-block.
“I thought I’d get the best out of the visit, scout out all the possible study sources.” Dominic waved his spoon energetically. “There’s supposed to be a depiction of the wreck in Quick’s. The naval museum.”
“There are two. Highly speculative, both of them.” That remark was going to sound odd without qualification. “Because, of course, nobody is supposed to have witnessed the shipwreck itself, or to have left a proper account of what happened.”
“Yes, I know that.” Dominic appeared puzzled. “I wasn’t sure how common that knowledge was.”
“It’s part of our family history. It came with the beams.” Morgan moved the conversation on as quickly as he could.
“And how did the beams come here? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“On the back of a cart, I guess.” Morgan shrugged. “That bit of the story was usually skimmed over. Probably involved my ancestors picking up other stuff they weren’t entitled to. Strong tradition of beachcombing among the Capells.”
“No doubt. And where there’s a will, there’s a way, and good strong timbers wouldn’t be sniffed at.” Dominic drew pictures of mechanisms in the air as he elaborated. “A winch and a pulley? Dragged up the path by a donkey on rollers? The beam, not the donkey.”
Morgan sniggered. “Well, however they got them up from the beach, they dried the things out to be used when they built this place. I do know my ancestors stored them away—which might be a euphemism for hiding them along with anything else they got their mitts on—until they were ready to start construction. And as the summer apparently turned cool but dry after Troilus went down, the drying out was easier than it might have been. They couldn’t believe their luck.”
“They must have thought it was manna from heaven if they wanted to raise a house and the necessary material was washed, almost literally, into their hands.” Dominic got out his notepad and jotted some notes down. “Lots to be explored, if you don’t mind me being pushy and asking further questions. What about the rest of the wreck? I mean, surely other objects came to shore along the coast if the ship broke up? Or are those things lurking in that museum too?”
“I’ve no idea.” Morgan finished putting milk in the coffee and brought the mugs over. “Beachcombing has always been a local hobby, not just for our family, as has hoarding away what you find. Did she have a valuable cargo?”
“I don’t think so. And if she did, I don’t suppose people were going to confess to finding it.” Dominic rubbed his forehead. “So this house must have been built within a year or so of Troilus going aground?”
“The next summer. Which was another dry one, surprisingly.” Morgan smiled. “We have good weather here on the whole, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell a hardened holiday veteran that summer can mean thunderstorms.”
“Tell me about it. We always had one or two thundery days—usually right after we arrived. The lightning seemed to come from nowhere.” Dominic laughed. “My mum used to say it was coming down in stair rods, but I never dared ask her what she meant. Our home was modern, so I’d never seen one, not until I went to some reproduction nineteen twenties cottage at a museum in London. It made sense then.”
“The delights of the impenetrable English language.”
“A lot of it comes from the Age of Sail. Sorry. You probably know that.”
“I know a bit. ‘Room to swing a cat’ was the one which confused me as a child—I used to imagine some poor moggy being whizzed around by its tail.” Morgan grinned. “I must have been an annoyingly literal child. So, when’s Quick’s museum on your agenda?”
“Later this afternoon, I think. I’ll look at those pictures, despite the fact they’re not accurate. I’m not after precision in them, simply the feeling they might evoke. Another layer to the research.”
“You’ll find plenty of layers, certainly. And as much as you’ve ever wanted to know about tides and currents and the Devil’s Anvil—the stuff about geography and oceanography, or whatever you call it, should be pretty accurate.” Morgan decided the coffee was as hot as it was likely to get. “Troilus isn’t the only ship that’s foundered off these shores. Others are bigger or better known.”
“So I understand. But the others don’t really interest me. Not like she does.” The glint in Dominic’s eye spoke volumes; there was more to this than fond memories of childhood places.
“Is there some personal connection between you and the ship?”
“Do you usually go around reading people’s minds?” Dominic sat back, leaning on the side of the carver chair and cradling his drink. “You talked about your great-great-whatever ancestor and that piece of rock. My great-great-whatever-uncle was captain of Troilus.”
“Good God.” Morgan steadied his hands on the edge of the table. “Well, that was a lucky guess. Or maybe an unlucky one.”
“Neutral, I’d have said. I’m not sure I believe in luck, despite the sailing background.”
“Were any other members of your family in the navy?” Morgan busied himself with his own drink. He’d read about Captain Edward Watson of the Troilus, who went down with all hands, and simply to think of the ship’s crew gave him shivers. In his nightmare, he could hear their drowning screams above the roar of the storm, see the bodies battering on the rocks. He clasped his hands around his cup in a vain attempt to steady them.
“His nephew followed the old man into the profession, but then my family parted ways with the sea. One of my however-many-great-uncles was in the merchant marine between the wars and the rest of our history, military or otherwise, is strictly territorial.” Dominic took another swig of coffee. “This is good. I’m being spoiled.”
Morgan smiled, despite the nausea in his stomach. Dominic was a genuinely nice bloke; why couldn’t he have been interested in a different ship, another set of rocks?
“That’s a lovely picture.” Dominic nodded towards the family grouping on the wall. “Taken in the dining room?”
“Yes. I’m afraid Dad’s no longer with us and Mum’s . . . Mum’s in a home. Only me here now.”
Dominic flushed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to intrude.”
“No offence taken. It’s good to talk about them. Dad would have been fascinated by all your history stuff.”
“Can I do a rubbing? Of the marks on the beams, I mean?” Dominic had turned a brighter red.
Oh yes, gaydar’s gone ping. Fortunate that Dominic wasn’t really James’s type or the rat would likely have another broken heart to wear on his sleeve.
Morgan nodded. “I don’t see why not. So long as you don’t mind a bit of dust.”
“You should see the state of my flat.” Dominic drained his coffee quickly, as if he hadn’t intended what that remark might have implied, either.
“Come on, let’s get you set up.” Morgan pushed back his chair and rushed them round the awkward conversational corner. “Which ones did you have in mind?”
“The ones in the dining room.” Dominic got to his feet and grabbed his bag.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Come and show me what you need.”
The logistical issues became obvious as soon as they were in the room. The table could be moved, even the sideboard could be shifted at a pinch, but Dominic, tall as he was, would still be short of the beams themselves by a good few inches. “Ah. I think I’m going to be too vertically challenged.”
“Silly sod. I’ll get the stepladder out of the garage, and you can shin up it with your brass-rubbing kit or whatever you’ve got in that bag. I guess you came prepared.”
“Hey, don’t put yourself out. You’ve gone to enough trouble already without me rearranging your house.”
Morgan had, but he could go a step or two further. He didn’t mind helping the bloke along, especially if faffing around with the beams steered them clear of discussing the wreck itself. “If you’re going to do a job, you have to do it properly, don’t you? Get your stuff ready and I’ll fetch the ladder.”
When Morgan got back, Dominic was laying all his kit out on a cloth on the table; neatly, like a surgeon might have his instruments prepared for an operation.
“I’ll put this here and you can get on as you like.” Morgan propped the steps up against the fireplace. “There’s the washing up to do.”
“I should be doing that.” Dominic looked up, last piece of paper in place. “Go on, leave it for the moment. I could do with another pair of hands here, anyway.”
Morgan wasn’t going to argue. Any excuse to leave the domestic duty he liked the least; one of the advantages of being with James was that they’d justified using a dishwasher. Why the hell did he have to keep thinking about those days? He shook himself, mentally and physically. “I can manage a pair of hands.”
They got on with things, Dominic—meticulous without being fussy—producing a series of rubbings which illustrated the marks on the beams and threw up some Morgan hadn’t realised they possessed.
“You should do all of them at some point,” he said, as they carefully rolled up the sheets of paper. “I wish I could offer you the run of the place this afternoon, but I’ve got to be in Padstow later.”
“You’ve gone beyond the call of hosting duty for one day.” Dominic smiled. “But if we could manage another time before I fly home, I’d be really grateful. Can I take a rubbing of the stone in the garden too?”
“Help yourself. What about coming back tomorrow afternoon?”
“Perfect. Only don’t lay on tea. It should be my treat. Take you out somewhere.”
“That’s a deal.” Morgan left the steps where they were; no point in heaving them up and down like a tart’s knickers. “Okay, this washing up. I’ll take your offer—do you prefer to wash or dry?”
“Wash, please.”
“That’s the correct answer as far as I’m concerned.”
Back in the kitchen, Morgan happily cleared the table while Dominic ran the water and fought with a slippery washing-up liquid bottle.
“You know, sitting at that table, I had no idea there’d be such a stunning view of the Devil’s Anvil from here. Would you mind if I took some pictures from the garden before I go?”
“It’s not that different a view from the one you got down on the cliff path.” Morgan winced, realising how stupidly defensive his voice sounded.
“Oh, right.” Dominic winced like a spaniel, unsure why its owner has snapped at it.
“I simply meant I didn’t want you to waste your time. If you were expecting to get something quite different.” Now Morgan was being pathetic. How could he begin to explain without having to go through the whole story about why he got so anxious about his old bedroom? How he’d seen this view from there all his childhood years, when he’d had the room above the kitchen, but at the point when he’d inherited the ability to choose where to sleep, he’d moved to the biggest bedroom. “You can see for yourself when we’ve done,” he said, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
They did the washing up in a silence only broken by discussion of whether something was rinsed enough and where to put the gloves. When the last suds had gurgled down the plughole, Morgan ushered his guest towards the back door, guilt at having been rude yet again overcoming—albeit grudgingly—his reluctance to go and look out from this angle, even in broad daylight.
It was all so bloody stupid. Face your fears, wasn’t that how you were supposed to tackle things? Or was the latest wisdom that you kept a stiff upper lip, like they’d expected in his parents’ time? What with James and the wreck and his parents, and the worry that those nightmares might start anew, he needed a whole packet of starch for his lip, plus some whalebone.
They walked across the garden, over to the hedge which marked the boundary on the seaward side, Dominic fiddling nervously with his camera.
“Maybe I misled you.” Morgan tried to appear lighthearted. “I don’t think I ever realised how much better the view is here, rather than down at the cliff. The extra few yards of elevation add a lot.”
“It certainly does.” Dominic, clearly relieved to be back on a level conversational keel once more, flashed him a smile.
“I’ll let you get on with your photography. There are some late tulips I should deadhead while I remember.” There was always something in the garden to make yourself busy with if you needed an excuse to think. This garden had been his mother’s pride and joy, and he kept it as well as he could, the gardener who’d been coming for donkeys’ years deserving most of the credit.
“Nice millstone.” Dominic’s voice, suddenly at his back, made Morgan jump. He’d been lost in memories of helping his mother plant these tulips, and time had slipped past.
“Cool, isn’t it?” Morgan smiled. Another thing the family had acquired along the way, now decorating the garden rather than hard at work grinding corn. “Oh, before I forget. Do you want me to tell you the route the locals use to get into Porthkennack? It’ll avoid the weekend traffic snarl ups and save you time.”
“It might cost my life, given what the country lanes are like round here. I’ll stick to the main roads, with the rest of the tourists.” A small, awkward gap in the conversation ensued. “You’ve put up with a lot, letting me invade your house. I’m not sure my buying you tea and cakes tomorrow can settle the bill.”
Morgan hoped he wouldn’t offer money; better to jump in now, before the level of awkwardness racked up. “If you want to, you can buy me a pint this evening.”
“Great idea.” Dominic beamed. “Why not let me go one better and buy you dinner? I mean, you’ve saved me a pile of research and everything.”
“You insist on paying and I’ll refuse to come,” Morgan replied, smiling. “Go halfers and I’m happy. When and where?”
“Half five outside the yacht club work for you? I hear it’s been tarted up, so it should be a decent enough place for me to wait if you get delayed.”
“Yep. Works for me.” Morgan consulted his watch, with deliberate theatricality. He needed some time to get his head together before this afternoon’s ordeal. “Sorry, I’m going to have to get my skates on.”
“Oh, right. My fault.” Dominic backed down the path, patting the ballast stone as he passed it. “I’ll see you later.”
“You will.” Morgan watched him all the way out of the gate, feeling guilty about the fuss he’d made about the view from the back of the house. Fucking Troilus. Why did that ship insist on haunting him?