Christ. “The worst lie my big sister ever told me was that the hazard warning lights button in the car worked the ejector seat on the back, and if I didn’t stop kicking her seat in the front, she’d press it.”
“That seems fairly harmless. Did you believe her?”
Mal laughed. “Course not. Least, that’s what I told her. Then one time my dad had to slow down really quick on a motorway cos there’d been an accident, and when he turned on the hazard lights, I screamed the bloody car down. Dad reckons he practically had a heart attack, and they nearly had to send a second ambulance along for us lot.”
They ate in silence for a bit, but it didn’t feel awkward. More like they were comfortable enough together not to need to fill the gaps with words, and that was such a scary thought Mal gulped down his mouthful and said the first thing that came into his head. “So, you were working at a university before you came back here, right?”
“Yes. I’ve spent all my time since leaving school in the hallowed halls of academia.”
“Yeah? I nearly went there on holiday once, but I didn’t fancy the food and I couldn’t afford it anyway.”
Jory laughed. “That’s actually a pretty accurate description of most universities these days.”
“Which one did you do your degree at? No, wait, lemme guess. Oxford?”
“The other place. Cambridge.” Jory shrugged. “It’s traditional, in my family. For a first degree, at any rate. What wasn’t traditional was staying there. Bran wasn’t impressed. He thought I should be doing something useful, which you can read as either ‘lucrative’ or ‘liable to contribute to the family’s political interests.’”
“Huh. My mum would’ve loved it if I’d gone to uni, but, well . . . Who wants that debt hanging over them? I wanted to be earning, and I didn’t really need any more qualifications.”
Jory nodded. “That’s more or less what Bran said to me after I graduated—the qualifications thing. The fees weren’t so bad back when I went to college—they’d only recently started bringing them in.”
“So what, you stayed and got a master’s or a PhD or whatever?”
“Both.”
“That’s just showing off, that is,” Mal said, because Fuck, you must be well intelligent would sound pathetic. “And . . . you were like a lecturer?” He had a vague idea you had to teach if you worked at a university, alongside doing . . . whatever university doctors did.
“And a supervisor for undergraduates. That’s the bit I miss most, actually. Teaching small groups, discussing texts with them . . .”
“Don’t you hate it in that museum where nobody goes?”
“No, it’s fine.” Jory smiled. “Knowing it’s only temporary makes a big difference. And the place is overdue for a shake-up, so it keeps me occupied.”
“You’re just doing it for the summer?”
“Yes. I take up a teaching post in September at Gawen’s high school. Deputy head of the English Department.”
“Yeah? How’s he feel about that, then?”
“He’s happy, I think. Although whether it’s about me working at his school or because it means I’ll be staying in Porthkennack, I don’t know.”
And if that wasn’t a timely reminder that him and Jory weren’t going anywhere, Mal didn’t know what was. “Oi, he ain’t hoping you’re going to get back with his mum, is he?”
“As we’ve never actually been together, I doubt it.” Jory stared out to sea. “You’re probably thinking I’m a terrible father.”
“Nah, it wasn’t your fault. Shit happens. And you’re making up for it now.” Which was the main thing. Not like Jory’s sister, who’d had a second chance to make things right with Dev and had just chucked it in the toilet. “You should totally bring him down here. Bet he’d love it. Smugglers and pirates and all that crap, kids go for them lot, don’t they?”
Jory smiled. “I will.”
“Although . . . ain’t it a bit embarrassing for the family, knowing your great-great-whatever-grandparents were involved in smuggling? I mean, they had to be, didn’t they? No way that tunnel could have been dug on their land without them knowing about it.” Mal gave Jory a sidelong look. “That brother of yours, Bran, he’s gotta be really pissed off about the criminal past.”
“You’re not thinking like a Cornishman. Back in those days, everyone was involved in smuggling—or free-trading, which is how they viewed it. A lot of people saw it as morally justified. The English taxes were so high, the Cornish people would have starved without the free-traders.”
“You say English like it’s a . . . like Cornwall’s a separate country.”
“That’s because it is. Or was. A separate race, with a separate language. If you go back a few centuries, the idea of Cornwall being part of England was in many ways just that—an idea, not a concrete reality in the everyday life of the Cornish people.”
“You, mate, sound far too English to be saying it like you miss them days.”
Jory stretched out his arms, his hands clasped together over his head. Mal basked in the view, even better than the one in front of them, as all the muscles in Jory’s arms and shoulders stood out sharply, nothing hidden by the thin, stretchy T-shirt. “I may not sound Cornish, but it’s in my blood. Sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder how on Earth I ever stayed away so long.” He turned to give Mal a sharp look. “I suppose you feel the same way about London.”
“What? Nah, I . . .” Mal stopped to actually think about it. “I dunno. I mean, yeah, it’s where I’ve lived all me life, but I dunno about it being in my blood or nothing. S’pose cities are like that.
