by Angela Huth
‘Careful,’ she said.
They stopped for a moment, panting, halfway to the cliff’s top -turned to look back at the small town in its hibernating garb, the fields beyond it a graph of shut-down mobile homes. By swerving the eyes from land to sea the ugliness was banished. William looked down on the hard grey shore, and across the stroppy glinting of the waves that met the sky at some indeterminate place, and caught his breath, and heard the thumping of his heart. He tried to cast off the past walks cobwebbing his mind to concentrate on this, last, present one, and felt the courage drain from him. He turned to Grace. Her cheeks were crab apples. The edges of her hair, escaping from her woolly hat, danced across her forehead and round her neck, greying tendrils that reminded him of her years of love and devotion. She was fitter than him–no doubt of that: scarcely out of breath, her mouth twitching, ready to smile with its next burst of enthusiasm.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly there.’
Grace, less burdened than her husband, began to climb again with a light step. The visit she had dreaded to William’s old friend had turned out to be a great deal more enjoyable than she had expected. She had warmed to the ungainly Perdita with her fierce bossy singing voice, and her conviction that making music round the piano was still a good way to pass an evening. She liked the unpretentious, friendly Dick: his apparent obliviousness to cold and discomfort, his keenness to be a good host, his complete lack of ambition to aim for some recognition in the musical world. Surprisingly, she had enjoyed herself, though she could see William–who’d been the one so keen to come–was less happy. Well, there had been major problems in the night due to a duvet, an article of bedding William abhorred with such intensity that his usual powers of calculation as to balance and weight had simply exploded, withered, died. He had spent the night in his overcoat. Grace put his morose look down to lack of sleep. For her own part the single shadow on her enjoyment was the thought of Lucien trying to get into the house–wanting her, needing her, expecting her. But she reasoned quite successfully with herself: Lucien may have committed an act of theft through necessity, but he was not a regular burglar. She could not imagine him shinnying up drainpipes, testing window locks. The house should be quite safe. And on their return she would hold out no longer, but get in touch with him. She would not let herself dwell on the fact that self-consolation can be a great deceiver, and was finding as much pleasure in this walk with the panting William as she did in all their walks.
During the last twenty yards of the steep climb to the top of the cliff, William kept his eyes only on the ground: the slippery winter grass and Grace’s ankle boots–what she called her walking boots, as if journeys round the suburban streets at home required sturdy footwear. They were made of sherry-coloured leather, soft enough to mould round her bunions. William thought of all her shoes lined up neatly in the cupboard. Each pair bore the faithful imprint of these swollen joints. Their reflections of their owner’s imperfections William had always found rather sad. A few bars of Borodin’s Quartet in A major, the second movement, came to him. Better get on with it, he thought. For they had reached the top.
They stood looking out at the muffled horizon. The cliff top jutted out so far that from where they stood it was not possible to see the shore. Grace took a step backwards, to be a little nearer to the fence that divided the rough grass from the tame undulations of a golf course. She had no liking for the edges of high places. She would never lean over the rails of a boat. She feared driving along narrow mountain lanes. To see William widen the space between them, as he took two paces towards the edge, made her heart beat riotously.
‘Come on,’ he said, and held out a hand. He smiled–not so much a smile of encouragement as one signifying he was spiritually removed from the present. Grace had often seen that smile when he was playing, particularly andante movements. Bracing herself, she joined him. Did not take his hand.
‘Couple more feet and we’ll be able to see the shore,’ William said.
‘I don’t want to see the shore. I know perfectly well what it looks like. Don’t be silly, William. You know I hate–’
‘Very well. I’m not forcing you.’ He felt the burning of his face. Things were not going exactly to plan. He moved nearer to the edge, stopped at a clump of shiny leaves, similar to spinach but more rubbery. He had never seen such leaves before, wondered if Grace knew what they were.–Two more steps and he would be over. He craned to look down at the beach, its grey stones reduced to a lead pencil line hundreds of feet below.
‘William!’ Grace’s scream was dulled by the damp air, but carbonated by the terror within it. William turned to placate her. In that careless moment, shocked by her face, his foot slipped. He fell.
Even as he crashed to the slippery ground some infinitesimal part of his mind registered that his plan was now working all too well: he should fall, and in Grace’s struggle to pull him up she would be pushed over the edge … What he had not calculated was his own petrified feelings as his legs thrashed into the air. Only the top half of his body was supported by land.
Grace’s desperate hands were on his arms and shoulders, pulling. She shouted at him to grab the leaves. He saw that she was crouched on the ground, trying now to hoist his legs back over the cliff edge. Spittle on her lips. Immense strength, from somewhere, for suddenly his legs were supported again: wet grass soaking his trousers. His own death now averted, some clear point in the chaos of his mind and body urged him to take his chance before Grace retreated.
In her panic, for all her fear of edges, Grace had no intention of retreating. She pulled at William, urging him to get up, move away from the edge. He lay strangely recumbent, moaning. Then he began to kick, and struggle, squirming like a man having a fit. Grace’s terror was renewed–just as William intended. How would she ever have the strength to prevent his sliding off? She grabbed at his hair. In return he rolled over, releasing his head from her fingers. Grace, weak with relief that they were both now squarely on terra firma–danger over–let down her guard. This William saw at once, realised it was his moment, his final chance. With a terrible shout of ‘Over you go’, he shunted her towards the edge again. His awkward, half-crouching position denied his arms their full strength. Nonetheless, Grace rolled obediently towards her death. As her body moved within inches of the cliff’s edge, William watched fascinated, scarcely able to believe his brilliant strategy had been executed so well. Questions ripped through his mind: would he hear her screams as she made her flight down to the shore? How would he judge the efficiency of an undertaker advertised in the Yellow Pages?
As Grace found herself bundled to the cliff’s edge, her last thoughts were of exasperated love for William. As usual, when disoriented by some kind of crisis, he could never tell his reverse from his forward. In his panic he had meant to roll her back towards him - ‘Over you go’ - and had made his usual muddle … Which this time was about to be the end. For Grace saw the distant shore, hundreds of feet below, awaiting her. She could not bear to look. She tried to scream, but terror had strangled her voice. She shut her eyes.
In darkness she moved her hands, free from William who was now clutching at her hips. The black behind her lids was torn with frantic prayers. She knew that William was trying his best to save her, pull her from danger. But in case he was not strong enough, there was perhaps still a chance to save herself … Blindly Grace flung a hand further. Suddenly her fingers were filled with icy rubber leaves, the strange sprouting foliage she had earlier been unable to name. She pulled at it. It did not give. It was strong. A life-saver of a plant. With one hand locked firmly on a bunch of leaves, she managed to heave herself round to what she imagined was in the direction of William. Only then did she dare open her eyes. She was right. The cliff edge was behind her. She lay like a beached fish facing the golf course, the cluster of distant roofs of the village. William, too, was on his stomach, hands splayed on the earth. His face was very close to her own, eyes enlarged with fear, the poor dear c
reature. She knew he had been imagining life without her.
‘Oh my God, my Ace.’
William’s voice came to her like a rudder. He ceased to push or pull her. She kept her eyes on him. To have reconstructed their struggle for life would have been impossible. How they had arrived here, now several feet from the cliff edge, awry on the wet ground, she would never know. William hoisted himself into a sitting position. He patted her on the shoulder, then rubbed at the marks on his trouser legs. He had saved her life–though for a moment it had seemed as if in his distraught state he had definitely misjudged the rescue. Not for anything would Grace ever admit this to William, but at one point it had felt as if he was pushing her towards the edge, rather than dragging her back. But perhaps it had been a hallucination, caused by the general terror. Grace saw William’s cheeks were a nasty red, his forehead slashed with mud. He gave her an unabashed look. At least he was taking it all coolly, as she would expect.
‘That was a near thing,’ she said at last, and gave a small laugh that was thickened by encroaching tears.
‘It was indeed, my Ace,’ agreed William. The thump of Prokofiev–da di da-di da di da, Romeo and Juliet- was now so loud in his head that he shook it violently, trying to stop it.
‘You saved me,’ said Grace. William turned the shaking into a nod.
‘I did, my Ace,’ he said. ‘Just managed it.’
Grace lumbered to her feet. William looked up at her in awe. She put out a hand, helped him to his feet.
‘If it hadn’t been for those strange leaves, God knows, we might both be … by now.’
‘Or one of us might have been,’ William added. ‘That would have been worse. Shall we walk on a bit? Or are we too cold and shaken?’
‘I think we are.’ Grace put her arm through William’s. ‘I think we should go back.’
Very slowly they began to retrace their steps back down the cliff, several yards from the edge. In their delicate journey William realised there are few kinds of happiness more potent than relief, and for the time being, Grace safely beside him, this warm thought dispelled all regret at the abortion of his plan. That was something that in the warmth and safety of his room he would have to think about further.
Dick and Perdita were still in church by the time they returned to the cottage. This afforded them a little time to repair themselves–change into dry clothes and stoke up the fire, seek further calm in an early glass of sherry. But a sense of shock was deeply embedded within them both and their chief desire was to get home as soon as possible, distance themselves from the scene of their cliff-top experience. So when their hosts returned, they confessed their need to get back this afternoon rather than next morning -William remembered vital calls that had to be made concerning a concert in Denmark. Dick understood, was impressed. Can’t interfere with the heady life of a world-class musician, he said, meaning it. Had William not been so full of other sensations, his old friend’s reasonableness would have induced guilt.
To make up for their sudden departure, Grace and William made a great effort over the Sunday lunch. They made light of their minor accident, converting the real terror into a funny story.
I shut my eyes once I’d grabbed William,’ Grace explained, ‘not daring to look. At one moment I could have sworn he was pushing me the wrong way, over the cliff. But of course I was completely disoriented.’
Dick and Perdita laughed so loudly that the strain in William’s own contribution to the hilarity could not be discerned. Beneath the table he kneaded his cold fingers, longing for his violin, and wondered what the next move in his grand plan should be. After the near miss this morning, he was aware that his determination for success was less firm than it had been. But in order to be available for Bonnie he must, of course, not waver. Some new idea would come. Meantime, for once in his life, he had no appetite for the rice pudding that Dick had so kindly prepared long before breakfast. When he declined a second helping Grace raised her eyebrows. Luckily, she seemed to think it was the only really odd thing that had happened during the visit.
10
‘How was your night?’ asked Grace.
‘Not bad: not bad at all, my Ace. And yours?’
‘Fine, fine.’
On the morning after their return home, Grace and William fell automatically back into their normal routine, their daily enquiries as to the other’s well-being. For once, both lied for their different reasons. Instead of exaggerating their small nocturnal disturbances, here they were both declaring their rotten night was not bad, fine. Very unusual, they both thought, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Grace, on getting up, sensed a stiffness in her limbs that had not been there the day before. She noticed bruises on arms and thigh. One ankle was swollen. It was painful to walk (but not too bad). She was determined to disguise her hobbling. It would be better to make no further reference to yesterday’s fall. At the time it had all happened so fast that the impact, the potential horror, had escaped her. But in the night what might have been had brutally assailed her, been the cause of her wakefulness. Now, she found herself shaky, eager to lose herself in her painting to deflect the trauma.
Further agitation was caused by the thought of Lucien. Some instinct told her he would return, at last, this morning. He could not know it was far from the perfect morning. William seemed to be in a jumpy state equal to Grace’s own. She could see the inner quivering, despite his firm mouth and bright countenance, and imagined that he, too, was suffering shock from their near escape. It was not a morning Lucien would receive any welcome from William.
But Lucien did not come. The Handles kept their silence during breakfast, both willing the time to speed towards their various escapes. Grace finished her second cup of coffee. She longed to glance once more at the window, both dreading and longing for the sight of Lucien. But she resisted, for fear William would detect the process of her mind. She placed one hand flat on the table, fingers pointing towards him. Through the veil of his own preoccupations he recognised this was some kind of unusual appeal.
‘Hello, my Ace.’ He patted the strangely placed hand. ‘Busy schedule today, have you?’ In reply Grace smiled, nodded. ‘Well, I must be on my way, too. There’s the Bournemouth concert to grapple with.’ He hurried from the room.
Grace knew there was no hope of settling down to paint until later. Much though she wanted to escape into the shell of her work–sable brush, thin colour, delicate stamens to be depicted with infinite care–she knew she could produce nothing of any value until she had walked off the restlessness that nagged at her. She put on her thick coat, boots and scarf and left the house. She did not bother to leave William a message. He was unlikely to come downstairs till lunchtime, would not discover her shirking.
It was a raw grey morning, bitterly cold. Frost tinselled the hedges that divided her neighbours’ gardens. Lighted windows threw their reflections on to trim little front lawns, making a strange geometry of gold on the frost-white grass. Grace walked slowly, painfully With no one to see her she did not try to disguise her limp. She was aware of encroaching self-pity. She wished the visit to Dorset had never taken place. She wished she had never come across Lucien. She longed to see him.
At the end of the road she stopped, wondering whether to turn right or left. She had had some vague plan to go to the bank, but there was no need for this chore. So instead she turned left. Once round the block, she realised, was all she could manage with her ankle. Home, she would have to bandage it.
She hobbled a few yards along Beauchamp Road–houses more exposed than in the Handles’ road, a wary look on their mock Tudor façades–and looked up from the pavement to see a familiar figure loping towards her. Lucien: definitely Lucien. He wore a long, shaggy coat she had not seen before, open to reveal a thin, unbuttoned shirt … how did he manage never to catch cold? Her mind dithered on these motherly lines while her heart tipped up, unbalancing her. Lucien was almost upon her: brisk, unshaven, smiling as soon as he recognised her. She was gl
ad she had had a few seconds to observe him before he had seen her. They stopped simultaneously, a yard apart.
‘Well,’ said Lucien. ‘Grace. Whatever -?’ He looked down at her foot. ‘William been throwing you downstairs?’
Grace smiled back. She felt a warm flush of blood roaring across her face. Her fingers, in their angora gloves, burned.
‘Slight accident,’ she said. He was thinner. Spiky wrists jutting from the short sleeves, more bruised than her own arms. What on earth had he been up to?
‘I was thinking of coming to see you,’ Lucien said. ‘Been a long time.’
‘It has.’
‘Enjoyed your Christmas?’
‘It was quiet.’
‘You got my message?’
‘Thank you, I did.’
‘Seemed you were having a party. Didn’t like to intrude.’
‘Just the members of the Quartet. We get together every Christmas.’
‘Very exclusive, like.’ Lucien hunched his shoulders, frowned.
‘Not at all.’ Grace gave a small laugh. ‘What’ve you been up to? Working?’
