“I…” Ben blinked. “Sorry. I feel like I’ve been asleep for days.”
“You have. But not snoring. It’s one of your most attractive qualities, you know, you never snore. Rare and precious, and”—his voice dropped, though they were alone on the platform—“sadly underrated in a bed partner. Not that I’m implying it’s your best quality in that department, just that I appreciate it greatly.”
“Idiot.” Ben hid behind the cup, not sure of his own reaction. Jonah hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and the beginnings of a black beard gave him an air that Ben could only call piratical. He would look rather good with a well-trimmed beard, Ben thought, and then he was imagining the feel of that wiry hair against his own skin, the whisper of roughness it would bring to a kiss.
He had been lost in turmoil for so long, until that strange period of mindlessness and sleep. Now he felt awake, and alert, and with it, painfully aware of Jonah. His laughing eyes, and his mouth made for kissing, and the life that ran through him, always so bright and vivid, and that lithe strength that could knock Ben on his back…
He took a scalding gulp of tea. “Where are we?”
It turned out the trains had taken them to Exeter, and from there to Liskeard, where they were waiting for a train to somewhere called Looe.
“I said we’d go as far as we could, and this is about it,” Jonah said. “I think after this we walk, or possibly ride a cow.”
A tiny engine pulled two carriages along the coastal route to Looe, over steep inclines and through thick woods. From Looe a carter accepted a penny to take them further on, up the next cliffs, past Polperro, jolting along deep-sided narrow twisting lanes. They hopped out of the cart at a crossroads, where the carter was to go inland, and the little sea road ran down to a tiny fishing village. It was visible some way ahead, cottages spilling along the steep side of a deep cleft in the coastline.
“Just Pellore down ’ere,” the carter warned them. His speech was so thick, it was hard to make out the words. “Not much doin’ yerr.”
“It sounds perfect,” Jonah assured him.
They walked along the road in silence. The air was salty, bright with the scents of thyme and gorse.
“What are we going to do in a fishing village?” Ben asked at last.
Jonah shrugged. “Fish?”
“Do you know how?”
“No. Do you think it’s difficult?”
“Extremely, I’d have thought.” Ben had never been to Cornwall before, never seen the sea, in fact. He’d been watching the shifting blue sparkle all day, whenever he could, fascinated and a little unnerved. He hadn’t quite understood how large it was. “I imagine people have to work hard round here.”
“I can work hard,” Jonah said, answering the unspoken question. “At least, I expect I can. It’s never come up.”
The long journey had sadly depleted their stolen funds, so finding some kind of work would soon become necessary. They were both travel-stained, luggageless, with nothing more than a pocketful of coins and the clothes they stood up in. But the sea was glittering in Ben’s vision, the air was as clear and as intoxicating as gin, and Jonah was with him, shoulder to shoulder, stride by stride. In this moment, they were free.
The sun was already low over the sea, spreading a long golden pathway over the waves.
“We should think about a place to sleep at some point,” Jonah remarked. “There’s an inn there.”
It was a large building, larger than one might have expected for such a remote place, perched at the top of the cliff where the road began its meander down to Pellore. Its whitewash was stained with sand and salt, and the grey slate roof had a disorder to it. A faded sign showed it to be the Green Man.
“Let’s try the village first,” Ben suggested. “See where we are and if we want to stay here.”
It wasn’t much. Pellore was a small agglomeration of cottages, huddled against the sea winds, running down a steep, narrow valley to a long stone quay that jutted into the sea, out past black bunched rocks. Red-sailed boats were moored along the quay, and blue-jerseyed men in heavy boots moved with bent backs among piles of wet and stinking netting. The stone underfoot glimmered with damp and fish scales. A crab lay, belly up, legs flopped wide. Jonah took a step forward to inspect it, and hopped back, startled, as a mad-eyed seagull swept down with a flurry of wings to claim the treasure.
There was no way on earth that Jonah belonged here. What had they been thinking?
And there was no work, either. It was a fishing village, that was all, supporting itself, and nobody had any need for two rootless, shabby, ignorant Londoners. They walked around for a while, garnering too much attention, and as dusk fell, they set back up the road.