She bustled away, returning soon after with a mug of her own and a plate of chocolate biscuits which shook slightly as she held it. Jory hastened to take it from her. She dimpled at him. “They’re Sainsbury’s own brand, but they’re very good.”
Helen eased herself down into the cat-free chair and smiled at them. “It’s not the sun, is it?” she asked calmly. “Don’t you worry. My Peter’s boy came back from Iraq with that PTSD. Used to jump at loud noises. He’s much better now. Drink your tea, that’ll help.”
Mal lifted his mug and took a sip. Then he grimaced. “Blimey, you got the EU sugar mountain in here?” He took another mouthful, though, and then a third.
Jory, relieved as he was to hear Mal talking normally, eyed his mug and wished for a handy potted plant and a moment’s inattention on Helen’s part. But when he took a cautious sip, he found his tea to be strong, sparingly milked, and unsweetened.
Helen caught his eye with a satisfied look. “You should have a biscuit, both of you,” she insisted. “I’ll never manage to eat them all by myself.”
Jory handed the plate to Mal, who took one and demolished it in a couple of bites. “’S good,” he mumbled through his mouthful, and for a moment Jory was back in the museum at their first meeting. Christ, had it really only been a few days ago?
“You’re not from around here, are you? Oh, I know who you are, Jory Roscarrock,” she added, sending a frisson of surprise down Jory’s spine. She nodded towards the mantelpiece. “See that picture, with the boy in the stripy top on his dad’s shoulders? That’s my grandson Patrick with his eldest. I remember when you two were thick as thieves, running round barefoot all summer and covering his mother’s carpets in sand.”
Jory stared at her for a moment, then after a glance at Mal, he got up to examine the photograph. That was what Patrick looked like now? His hair was thinning, and he had what Jory had seen referred to on the internet as a “Dad body.” Jory wouldn’t have known him. The child he carried was too small to have grown into recognisable features, but Jory fancied he saw a hint of the young Patrick in his eyes, and his smile.
He felt a sharp pang of loss for that far-off time when the worst thing that could happen had been a rainy day. “He’s . . . doing all right?”
“Very well. He’s living in Newquay now. His wife’s a lovely girl. A pharmacist. Patrick met her at university.”
She didn’t ask about Jory’s marital status. Perhaps she already knew that too.
“I’ll tell him you asked about him. He’s a good boy. Rings me every week.”
“I, ah, I’m glad to hear it.”
“’S important. Family,” Mal spoke up out of nowhere.
“I’m sure you’ve got a lovely family, dear. London, is it, you’re from?”
Mal nodded.
“And you’ve brothers and sisters?”
“Just a sister. Morgan. She’s gonna have a kid.” Mal, who’d been mostly talking to the carpet, looked up. “I mean, she’s got a husband and all,” he said earnestly.
Helen twinkled. “Why is it the young always assume the old will be shocked by modern ways? When you reach my age, dearie, you realise there’s nothing new under the sun.”
“Gay marriage. That’s new,” Mal said with a hint of challenge that Jory was glad to see, possible offence to their kind hostess be damned.
“Oh, people have always managed to find each other somehow. Now, will you have another biscuit? More tea?”
Mal grabbed another chocolate biscuit and pretty much inhaled it. Then he drained his mug and stood up. “Thanks. You’ve been— Think I’ll be okay now. And . . . Cheers. Your grandson’s a lucky bloke. Nah, don’t get up. I’ll wash the cups and all.”
He collected their mugs—Jory finished his tea hastily before handing his over—and walked out of the room with purposeful stride.
Jory was left with his childhood best friend’s grandmother.
She smiled at him. “I always thought it was a shame when they sent you off to school. But from what I hear, you’ve done well for yourself.”
Jory was almost afraid to ask, but—“What have you heard?”
“You’re Dr. Roscarrock now, aren’t you?”
He shrugged, awkwardly. “Nobody calls me that.”
“Perhaps they should. Are you back here for good?”
“Yes. I—” Jory took a deep breath. “I wanted to spend more time with my son. Gawen. He’s twelve now.”
“His mother’s an artist, from what I hear,” she said placidly. “Does he take after her? Or is he more like you?”
“Me, I think. In looks as well as temperament.” Unnerved by her level of knowledge about him, Jory fumbled in his pocket for his phone, and found a recent picture of Gawen to show her.
“Oh, yes, he’s a handsome young man all right. I’m sure he’ll be breaking hearts in a few years’ time.” She patted his hand. “Not that I’m suggesting you’d do anything like that.”
“I, er— No.” Jory was relieved to see Mal’s return.
“You ready?” Mal didn’t sit down again, so Jory stood up, not sure himself that he wanted to spend any more time with this uncomfortably astute old lady.
“Yes. Thank you so much, Helen.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure. I don’t get many visitors who aren’t family. There will always be a welcome for you in this house, Jory Roscarrock. And you too, Malory.”
Mal nodded, his face a little pink. It was a definite improvement on the deathly pale of earlier. “You take care, yeah?”
She dimpled at them from her chair, obviously expecting them to see themselves out, so they did.
Once they were out on the street, a problem presented itself. Jory hated to ask, but: “Are you going to be all right to get back in the car?”
Mal flinched. “Uh. How far are we from the Sea Bell? Shit. Don’t think I’m going to make it
