The House on the Cliff

by Charlotte Williams

  “Really?” she said. She looked up, a puzzled expression on her face. “Was she? I don’t remember that.”

  “But you must remember.” I kept my tone level. “The girl was working for you and then she drowned. That’s not the sort of thing anyone forgets.”

  “No, of course not.” She paused. “I suppose it’s possible that she might have been here at one time. Before the drowning, I mean.” She worked the cream into a rough, calloused patch on her forefinger. “But we had so many au pairs in those days. There was always some girl or other here, helping out.”

  She stopped rubbing and put the top back on the tube of cream. I noticed her hands were trembling slightly.

  It seemed clear to me that she was lying, and I wondered if she was doing so to protect Evan in some way, possibly to do with the scandal. But I decided, for the moment, to let it go.

  “How’s Gwydion?” I said, changing the subject.

  She looked up at me. “He seems a bit better,” she said. “But not terribly communicative at the moment, I’m afraid. To me, anyway.”

  “Has he . . .” I hesitated, not sure how to put my next question. “Has he been asking you about . . . about his childhood?”

  Again, the puzzled look. “How d’you mean?”

  “Gwydion seems to think that something traumatic might have happened to him when he was young. Something that might have caused his . . . issues.”

  “No. He hasn’t spoken to me about this.” She put her hand to her brow, as if in thought, but there was a nervous, febrile quality to her gesture. “And I can’t think of anything that might have—” She broke off. “I don’t know what’s keeping him. Hang on, I’ll go and get him. Won’t be a sec.”

  Arianrhod got up quickly and walked out. I waited, thinking she’d be back shortly, but she wasn’t. After five minutes she still hadn’t returned. I had a feeling this might all be going to take some time, that things were getting more complicated than I’d anticipated, so I took out my phone and quickly texted Bob to say I’d got held up and wouldn’t be back until later that afternoon. Then I went over to the kitchen window and looked out over the lawn.

  One of the peacocks had lifted its tail, fanning it out in front of a nervous-looking dowdy brown peahen, which was running about ineffectually in front of it, apparently trying to escape. As the cock turned, I saw the extraordinary upholstery on its back, two sturdy brown wings and a thick fan of gray feathers holding up the delicate canopy above. I watched, fascinated, as the courtship proceeded, the peacock strutting this way and that, little by little closing in on the hen as she searched for a way out.

  As the minutes ticked by, I realized there must be some kind of discussion going on between Gwydion and Arianrhod, perhaps an argument. I wondered what they might be saying to each other.

  The peacock began to bear down on the hen, cornering her by the edge of a flowerbed. He began to shake his tail feathers, rippling them so that the emerald greens and blues flashed in the sunlight, waving them this way and that until they dazzled her. Then he stepped forward to cover her. I looked away.

  Gwydion came into the kitchen. Alone. He was dressed in his Sunday-in-the-country clothes, a pair of faded cords and a baggy woolen cardigan over a T-shirt that looked as though it had shrunk in the wash. There was a day or two’s stubble on his cheeks. He seemed a little nervous. There was a slight flush to his cheeks, and he moved quickly, as though impatiently, in anticipation.

  “Jessica. Good to see you. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m staying nearby, so I thought I’d drop in. See how you’re getting on.”

  He came over and was about to kiss me on the cheek, but then thought better of it. Shaking hands would have been too formal, so we stood there by the window for a moment, feeling foolish—or, at least I did.

  “Why are you really here?” he said. His voice was low, almost a whisper. Like Arianrhod, my visit seemed to have thrust him into a state of nervous anticipation.

  “You ended our session so abruptly. I wondered why.”

  I didn’t mention what had happened at the end of the session, but that question, too, hung in the air.

  “I thought I’d explained. But listen . . .” He paused. “I was going to call you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve been wanting to ask my mother about the dream. About the woman. And Evan.” His words seemed to come out in a rush, as though he was afraid that the moment would pass and he’d miss his opportunity. “But . . .” He paused. “I can’t seem to raise it with her. I think it would help if you were present when I talked to her.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well . . .”

  Sometimes therapists call parents or other family members in to discuss a problem with a client. It’s a well-established practice, though not one I’ve ever used. I wasn’t sure what I thought about it. On the whole, as I’ve said, I prefer to steer clear of the family baggage and deal with clients as individuals. I’m an existentialist, after all—by training, and by preference. Of course the family issues matter tremendously, but when a soul’s in trouble, for whatever reason, it’s usually better to keep them out of the proceedings, in my view.

  “Please, Jess. Help me. I can’t do this on my own.”

  I let out my breath, as gently as I could. It wasn’t a sigh, more a gesture of resignation. “OK.”

  He smiled in relief. “Good. Great. She’s waiting in the sitting room. I told her we’d be coming in together to talk to her. Come on.”

  I felt slightly outmaneuvered. A little resentful, even, that Gwydion had seen fit to jump the gun like that, assume that I would act as chaperone while he confronted his mother.

  “All right. But you must understand, Gwydion, that sooner or later you’re going to have to face her on your own. Without me.”

  “Of course.” He began to walk out of the kitchen, and I followed.

  “And your father?” I continued, as we walked along the corridor. I kept my voice low. “Is he going to be in on this?”

  “Evan’s away.” Gwydion kept his voice at normal volume, unconcerned about being overheard.

  “Well, I would have thought . . .”

  We came to a door. Gwydion stopped in front of it, listened for a moment, and then knocked.

  There was a voice from the other side of it. “Come in.”

  Gwydion opened the door and we walked in. Arianrhod was sitting on a large sofa and got up to greet us. She looked tired, worried, but, like Gwydion, there was also an air of excited anticipation about her that seemed out of keeping with the situation.

  It was a big, airy room, rather grand, with French windows that gave out onto the lawn, and an open fireplace at one end. Over the mantelpiece was a large oil painting of a young, slim, dark-haired girl wearing a diaphanous garment that could have been a nightie. Whatever it was, it didn’t cover very much, anyway. It was a modern piece, all angles and shadows and odd perspectives, so at first I didn’t realize who it was. Then I saw that it was Arianrhod as a young woman, as she must have been when she met and married Evan.

  Arianrhod sat us down, me in an armchair, Gwydion in another, and herself on the sofa. The room was cold. There was no fire burning in the grate. But the chill seemed appropriate for what was obviously going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

  “So, Gwydion.” Arianrhod spoke calmly. I thought she seemed more self-possessed than usual. “You’ve told me you need to talk to me. And that you need Dr. Mayhew—Jessica—here to help you do that.” There was a hint of derision in her voice, but only a hint.

  Gwydion sat forward on the edge of his chair. “There’s something I’ve remembered, Ari.” I noticed that he called her by her first name. “You know in the dream, where I hear the shouting, and the splash?”

  Arianrhod nodded. It was clear that he’d discussed the latest developments in the dream with her already.

  “Well, I know who it is now. The man who’s shouting is Evan. And the girl . . . The girl is an au pair we h
ad, called Elsa.”

  I hadn’t told Gwydion that the au pair’s name was Elsa. He must have found out for himself. Perhaps from the plaque by the cliffside. Or maybe Arianrhod had told him minutes before, during their confab while I was in the kitchen.

  “I must have been about five or six. Evan took me out on the yacht with Elsa. He was at the wheel, teaching Elsa to steer the boat, and I saw them kissing. I felt sick, so I went downstairs to the cabin to rest. But I didn’t sleep. The boat was rocking, and I could hear Evan and Elsa talking and laughing on deck. Evan was drunk. I hated it when he got like that. I was scared of him.”

  Arianrhod looked down at her hands, a look of shame on her face.

  “Anyway, I could hear him getting drunker. And Elsa seemed to be joining in. And then it began to turn nasty, as it always does with Evan.” Gwydion’s voice trembled, and he began to speak a little faster. “I heard shouting. Evan had got into one of his rages. And Elsa started screaming. Then I heard a bang, and a splash, like a body hitting the water. Evan started to crash about on deck, swearing. The boat lurched this way and that, and I wondered if he was going to be able to sail it home. I was terribly frightened. I thought we were going to die, that we were all going to drown.” Gwydion paused. “And that’s all I can remember. Nothing after that.”

  There was a silence. Then Arianrhod spoke. “I’m so sorry, Gwydi. I should never have—”

  “No, you shouldn’t.” Gwydion raised his voice. “You should never have let him take me out in that boat. I used to dread it every time. The man was a drunken bastard. You should have put your foot down. Protected your son. But you never did, did you? You never stuck up for me. Not once.”

  “I did try . . .” Arianrhod’s voice was a whisper.

  “No, you bloody didn’t. You were completely craven. Still are . . .”

  Arianrhod’s face crumpled. She hunched her shoulders, and her body seemed to shrivel into her frayed jumper. I felt for her. She was evidently partly to blame for what had gone on in the past, but, as so often happens, her son seemed to find it easier to direct his anger at her, rather than at his father.

  “And the worst thing is, you’ve lied to me.”

  “Lied?” Arianrhod looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “You knew perfectly well what happened. Evan took Elsa out on that boat to seduce her. I saw them kissing, I can remember it distinctly. The dream unlocked my memory of that. And then, in the dream, I heard them arguing. Evan must have pushed Elsa over the side, left her to drown, and sailed off without her. I was down below, I heard the jolt as she hit the water. That’s real, too. That’s what’s been waking me up every night for as long as I can remember.” Gwydion’s voice had begun to rise. “He was responsible for her death, the bastard. But you helped him cover it up. You both lied about it—to the police, to everyone. Lied to me. You never thought about how it would affect me, witnessing a murder.” Gwydion was shouting now, pointing his forefinger at his mother. “That’s why I’ve been so screwed-up all these years. I’ve been driven half mad, and all this time you’ve been hiding the truth from me.”

  “No, Gwydi.” Arianrhod was near to tears. “I didn’t know . . .”

  I decided to intervene. “I think what Gwydion’s saying, is . . .”

  I paused as they both turned to me. They seemed, momentarily, to have forgotten my existence.

  “Well,” I went on, “there are just a few facts that need clearing up here. Elsa Lindberg was your au pair, wasn’t she, Arianrhod?”

  “Yes.” Arianrhod nodded. She seemed to have accepted that there was little point in denying it now. “I’m sorry I lied to you earlier about that. I didn’t want you to know about the scandal. I thought . . .”

  “And she did go out sailing with Evan and Gwydion, didn’t she?”

  Arianrhod nodded again.

  “And then there was . . . an accident?”

  Gwydion held his head in his hands.

  “What was it?” I tried to speak as gently as I could. “You must tell us. For Gwydion’s sake. He really does need to know.”

  Arianrhod began to cry. She was obviously doing it to deflect Gwydion’s criticisms and my demands but, all the same, there was a genuine element of distress in her reaction, which made it seem callous to keep pressing the point.

  I scrabbled in my bag and passed over a tissue. Arianrhod blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. We waited until she’d composed herself, and then she began.

  “It wasn’t a murder, Gwydi. Evan told me what happened when he came home. He said that he and Elsa went out on the boat, and that he’d made a pass at her—he was honest enough about that. It was a sunny afternoon, and as they were quite close to the shore she’d said she was going to jump off the boat and swim home. He’d told her not to, but she’d insisted. He’d tried to sail in behind her to make sure she was all right, but he’d lost her.”

  She stopped. Gwydion was still looking at her angrily.

  “Honestly, Gwydion, this is the truth.”

  “What happened then?” I tried to get Arianrhod back on track with the story.

  “Well, Evan came home, bringing Gwydi with him. I put Gwydi to bed, and we waited for Elsa to reappear. Waited up all night. Next day, her body was found washed up on the beach.”

  “And yet you never told the police that she’d been on the boat with Evan.” I tried not to sound judgmental, but it was incredible. “Why was that?”

  Arianrhod hung her head. “Evan persuaded me to keep quiet about it.” She looked up, beseechingly, at her son. “You see, it would have been a terrible scandal. If people had known he’d gone out on the boat with that girl—she was so young, just nineteen—and tried—”

  “And tried to screw her?” Gwydion cut in.

  “Please.” A tear rolled down Arianrhod’s cheek. “Try to understand, Gwydi. It wasn’t Evan’s fault. He wasn’t directly responsible for her death, but it would have looked bad, wouldn’t it, if people had found out?” She paused. “I was just trying to be a loyal wife. It would have ruined his career . . . we would have lost everything . . .”

  At that, Gwydion got up and walked out of the room.

  Arianrhod didn’t try to stop him. Instead she bowed her head, covering her face with her hands. I sat there, watching her, as Gwydion went out, slamming the door behind him. I wasn’t sure what to do. So, for a few moments, I did nothing.

  Then she spoke, from behind the hands. “Go after him, please. He’ll be going out to the bay. See if you can calm him down.”

  I thought of the cliffs above the bay, and a sudden fear ran through me.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll try. See you later.”

  I walked quietly over to the door and opened it. When I looked back, she was still sitting, hunched and silent, her head in her hands, in front of her portrait.

  11

  I caught up with Gwydion as he crossed the lawn, heading toward the gate in the wall that led out to the bay. When he saw me he said nothing, but slowed his pace a little so that I could fall in with it. We let ourselves through the gate and onto the path, then walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out to sea. It was a murky day, the mist hovering over the water, a great, gray-brown mass of sea and sky and mud and sand and rock, with no features to distinguish one from another. A place where someone trying to swim home, in the cold water, with the darkening sky above, could easily get lost, and cold, and tired; a place where disorientation, and numbness, and despair would come quickly, so quickly that the shore might never be reached.

  Gwydion was still too upset to speak to me. Instead he stared out to sea, narrowing his eyes against the wind. For a while I did the same, standing in silence beside him, hoping that he’d start to talk. When he didn’t, I walked over to the top of the steps cut into the rock and peered at the inscription on the little plaque. I studied the name, Elsa Lindberg, and the dates, 1971–1990, as if they could tell me something I didn’t already know; and then I scanned the words below, wonderi
ng what they meant.

  Gwydion came up behind me. “It’s a poem,” he said. He spoke in a low, tentative voice, as though still not sure whether he had managed to calm himself. “I found a translation. It’s by a woman called Edith Södergran. Early twentieth century.” He began to quote the lines in English. “On foot, I had to cross the solar system, until I found the first thread of my red dress.” His voice was trembling a little. He hesitated for a moment, composed himself, and then continued. “I sense myself already. Somewhere in space hangs my heart. Sparks flow from it, shaking the air, reaching out to other speechless hearts.”

  There was a silence. The first thread of her red dress. The words made me think, not of defeat, of Elsa Lindberg drowning out in that cold sea, succumbing to the waves, but of victory—of the bright, uncompromising light of Stockholm, shining down on swan maidens, and Valkyries, and warrior women riding out through the frozen wastes, up and out into the stars, through time and space, to avenge the dead.

  “Strong stuff,” I said. “Very Nordic. When did you look it up?”

  “Just recently.” He paused. “Shall we go down the steps? I’d like to show you the beach.”

  I hesitated. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t have a great head for heights. And there was something particularly menacing about the bay below that put me off exploring it further. The way the cliffs rose up from it, layered and crumbling like half-demolished buildings. The way the sheets of rock on the beach jutted up, pitted and gray, like a lunar landscape. When you looked down at the beach from above, it seemed primordial, like an ancient seabed: you could imagine landslides, and volcanoes, and earthquakes, and huge tectonic plates shifting there, like a crack in history, in time itself.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I really ought to be getting back . . .”

  He grinned at me. “You’re not scared, are you?”

  “No . . .” I began.

  He raised his eyebrows in amusement.

  “Well, perhaps, a bit.” I peered down at the steps. “They look awfully steep. And slippery.”