The House on the Edge of the Cliff

by Carol Drinkwater

  I couldn’t look. Couldn’t meet his eyes.

  What if he had been revealing not his scar but his face? What if he had counted on my recognizing him? Was that it? Was it? Or were these hour-of-the-wolf anguishes feeding a hypothesis too outlandish to contemplate?

  But why else would he presume even for one second that I might have invited him into our home? Unless, unless … And then the question I had been asking myself since the afternoon’s encounter … But, no, it was preposterous. It was beyond plausibility, beyond any measure of credibility. Yet still the question returned to taunt me. People don’t rise from the dead, do they?

  1968

  Grace at Sixteen: Arrival in Paris

  Spring, those first bud-leaf days of April. I had won a scholarship to a drama school in north London, a three-year course commencing mid-September, so with time on my hands, I was off to Paris. Paris. To begin there and then, if my meagre finances lasted or other opportunities came my way, I’d explore further afield. Others of my generation – school chums a couple of years older than me, pals from our local youth club – had set their sights on more remote locations. Plans were under way for following in the footsteps of the Beatles, learning transcendental meditation by the river Ganges. Others were off to Nepal, Tibet, while one girl was travelling overland to Australia and another to South America.

  But I was sublimely content with Paris, for its bookshops, cinemas, galleries. The city of love. The City of Light, La Ville Lumière. Leading up to the French Revolution, it had been the nerve centre for ideas, philosophy, literary salons. Who could not dream of Paris?

  In my opinion, it beat flying to India to find God and coming home with dysentery.

  I was sixteen and green as unripe fruit.

  My home life, my childhood, had been turbulent. I seldom spoke about it. Even today I rarely revisit the years of my adolescence. I loved my parents, both of them, don’t misunderstand me, but they were wrestling with their chains, struggling within a marriage that was suffocating them, and of course I couldn’t save them. Anger, accusations, violence ensued. Domestic violence. It wears away at your soul because you don’t talk about it, and so, without ever intending to, you collude. You bury the pain, swallow the anger. You don’t disclose it because you don’t admit that it’s happening.

  Witnessing it first-hand – as I did, as well as being its victim – eats at your self-esteem, until you start to perceive yourself as worthless. That was me back then. The teenage Grace. Five, nearly six years of domestic unhappiness had influenced my personality, seeded insecurity, a tendency towards negativity. I couldn’t see the young woman I was blossoming into.

  Peter was the first to awaken me to my potential, and then I turned my back on him, handing myself to another, far less worthy. Pierre.

  But that was later. After Paris.

  One or two of my school chums had an inkling of what my domestic life was like, although they never uttered a word about it to me. On one mortifying occasion Jess, one of my classmates, accompanied me to my home to pick up the sandwiches I had made that morning for our lunch, then had left, forgotten, on the kitchen table. We were on our way to play tennis. As we rounded the house by the side path, I heard Dad’s transistor radio playing a vocal. It was Frank Sinatra singing ‘Try A Little Tenderness’. Looking back, I see the irony right there.

  Jess, who was humming, was right behind me. We slipped in through the kitchen door, and there, smack-bang in front of us, a full domestic. It might have been a scene from a kitchen-sink drama. Metal flashed, caught by sunlight. A bread knife wielded, glistening, blood smeared along its sharp edge. I was frozen rigid, until I heard Jess, alongside me, let out a cry.

  ‘Shit! Don’t look.’ I swung about to shield her from the scene. My first instinct was not my mother’s wellbeing but to get Jess out of there. No one at school must know.

  I shook her, pulling at her shoulders as though awakening her from a trance before she shot out of the door and threw up into a bed of full-headed blossoming daisies. My mother’s pride and joy, those flowers were. I ran after Jess, trying to quieten her. I pulled at her cardigan. ‘Don’t say anything, for God’s sake. Promise not to tell anyone. Promise!’

  She nodded, globs of sick on her chin, shrugged herself free and beat a hasty retreat up the lane, tennis racquet in hand. I hung back, watching her disappear.

  ‘Please don’t say anything,’ I yelled after her, but she didn’t react. She wouldn’t have heard me. She was well out of earshot.

  I trudged back inside.

  My mother was rinsing her hand under the cold tap, dabbing at it with a blood-stained tea towel, while my father was seated at the table, face buried in his hands. He was crying. Loud sobs. My handsome young dad, heaving with guilt and remorse. I didn’t know how to handle this. I hated him for what he had done. I wanted to strike out and hit him, but I loved him too. Achingly so. It was a mess. Neither of them said a word. And neither did I.

  Were they even aware that I was there, bleeding inside? Who knows? Our family life. I loved them both. It tore at my guts to see this unhappiness, this inability to resolve their differences. My dad wasn’t a cruel man. He had a quick, sparky temper, but he was good and kind underneath, and my mum might have taunted him occasionally.

  But sometimes I just wanted to run at him, grab him by the arms, anything to stop the violence. In earlier times I had attempted to intervene, but not any more. It seemed to exacerbate Dad’s anger, Mum’s secret weeping. ‘I wish I was dead,’ she said to me once, gulping the words with saliva bubbling out of her lips.

  ‘Don’t say that, Mum. Oh, God, please don’t. What about me? What would I do if you were gone?’

  ‘Oh, Grace …’ She dragged her damp fingers across my tear-stained cheek.

  More than anything in the world I wanted to protect my mum.

  Would they eventually separate, leave one another in peace, stop tearing at each other, if they didn’t have me to feed and attend to? Should I run away? Was that the best solution? Yes, I should. So many students were planning a pre-university trip. I should too, even if I was younger. Just go, Grace. Do it. Yet to vamoose felt like the worst act of abandonment.

  Like someone craving water, I craved new beginnings. I craved the unfolding, the awakening of my self. The sloughing of my damaged shell. I watched the hippie revolution unfolding on the television in our sitting room. I watched the ‘boys’, the American soldiers in Vietnam. I saw others burning their draft cards. I dreamed of adventure, of changing the world. Love, sex, rock and roll. No more violence. It was the age of Flower Power, of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. I leaned more towards heavier rock than the Beatles. It was the age of free love and hallucinogens, psychotropic drugs. None of which I had taken, of course. I was the proverbial virgin who had never puffed a cigarette, never got tiddly on anything more lethal than a half of cider. I was raw as a cabbage and ‘green in judgement’. I was damaged, needy, ripe for exploits, hungry for adventure. Indiscriminate.

  And so to Paris I set my modest compass.

  A motherless child.

  I took the night ferry train, from platform two at London’s Victoria station to Dover Marine.

  Freedom. Freedom.

  I can still recall the salty pre-dawn stink of Calais. The acridity of diesel fumes, of congealing blood on gutted fish. The cry of invisible gulls. The air was chilly and damp, drizzling, and I was heavy-eyed, sluggish, after a truncated night. My spirits lifted when, shuffling along with a line of other passengers, I stepped aboard the waiting train, La Flèche d’Or, our Golden Arrow to Paris. My magic coach flew through the northern French dawn, rattling me to the capital. Then, hey presto, I was in Gay Paree. Liberated, unchained, ready for anything and everything, ready to change the world.

  Change the world?

  My boundaries and dreams knew no limits. Face turned upwards, looking outwards, oozing willingness and a fresh, earthy smile that – even though I say it myself – could light up a room.
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br />   Foolish girl.

  I had eighty pounds in cash, earned from cleaning houses – vacuuming, scrubbing floors, changing beds – part-time jobs achieved in the evenings after school or Saturday mornings. My hard-earned banknotes were stuffed into the cups of my bra – forty in the left cup and forty in the right. Later, for comfort and a better silhouette, I wedged my stash beneath my clothes at the bottom of my rucksack. It was the largest sum of money I had ever been in possession of and I felt rich. And full-bosomed. The cash had to last me through to the autumn, to my return to London and to drama school.

  I had visited Paris once before, with my mum and dad when I was eleven. Now, at the tender age of sixteen, on Friday, 5 April 1968, I stepped off the train at the Gare du Nord. It was nine in the morning. The station was bustling. My backpack was cutting into my shoulders. I needed to offload it. The banknotes in my bra were itching my boobs. I wandered aimlessly for a while, breathing in the ambience, quelling my excitement and a dollop of rising uncertainty. I had no bed booked for that first night or any beyond it. No place to stay.

  My sights were set on the Left Bank. The Sorbonne University district in particular. I thought if I could touch base with students they would point me in the direction of a youth hostel. My French was passable. I had gained an A at O level and at home had devoured French literature. The classics. I was yet to become acquainted with Boris Vian, Simone de Beauvoir, Marguerite Duras, and their contemporaries. I was a fan of Jacques Prévert because I was already a passionate enthusiast of French cinema, Les Enfants du paradis was one of my favourites. More recently the nouvelle vague, Truffaut, Les Quatre cents coups. (Did I relate so viscerally to this film because in part it was a reprise of my own story?) Jules et Jim: I loved that picture best of all and had seen it three times. Jeanne Moreau. Those eyes, that smile. Such sexiness. I wanted to be Jeanne Moreau, to slide inside her skin. Or was it the role of Catherine I longed to embody? Catherine, who loved so freely, without guilt, without commitment. Loved two men at the same time. Wasn’t such a female the embodiment of the sixties?

  I paused to buy a map of the city. The station newsstand was decked out with copies of the latest French Vogue, the April issue, on its glossy front cover a leggy model wearing an apple-green tunic dress topped with a full-brimmed hat hung with pink tulips. It was gushy, unrealistic, and yet it was the incarnation of springtime. Or so it seemed to me on that introductory morning. Yes, this was Paris. My new life for the next few months.

  I took the Métro, Line 4, from Gare du Nord to Odéon, on the Left Bank, and from there I began to walk eastwards along the boulevard Saint-Germain. Black tobacco smoke, drivers hooting impatiently, car fumes, dark brown dribbles of concentrated coffee from espresso machines releasing clouds of steam. I inhaled it all, every cliché, breathed it in in great gulps, as though my life depended on it. This was the beginning of living. My first tentative step into the vast undiscovered cathedral of my own existence.

  I turned off Saint-Germain onto boulevard Saint-Michel and headed down a few narrow streets in the general direction of the Panthéon. It must have been raining earlier because the pavements were damp and the cloud cover was low and grey. I was wearing Levi Strauss jeans, blue suede hiking boots and a leather motorcycle jacket I had picked up from a second-hand stall at the Petticoat Lane market in the East End of London. I had dubbed it ‘my Rebel Without a Cause look’. My auburn hair, coppery after a recent shampoo with henna, was hanging long and loose. I thought I was the epitome of cool. Françoise Hardy, watch out. In my rucksack were several mini skirts, skimpy tops and other feminine accessories. I was ready for every occasion, as I climbed towards the Sorbonne district. The heart of Paris’s university life.

  It was midday. Church bells began to peal, mingling with the less harmonious sounds of hooters, and a siren call. The summons to workers to down tools, and eat lunch. (You didn’t hear that in Bromley!) Youngsters, three or four years my senior, were seated on the café terraces that lined the lanes, smoking, immersed in serious discussions, sipping shots of coffee. Several of the guys were sporting black-framed reading glasses that reminded me of Hank Marvin or the late great Buddy Holly. They were deeply engrossed in their newspapers. Libération seemed to be the popular choice.

  Liberation.

  Here and there, sheets and tablecloths had been hung from the façades of the old buildings. I thought it was laundry drying but they were scrawled with messages in bold black lettering: NON à la bureaucratie or Presse libre. I had no idea what they were about. I supposed it was to do with the anti-Vietnam marches taking place all over the world, but I wasn’t clued up on any finer issues at that stage.

  I met Peter Armstrong-Soames on that very first day. Talk about good fortune. I’d been wandering about for a couple of hours by the time I got into conversation with him. I was hungry, energy flagging, and asking myself rather too frequently where I was going to sleep. The intrepid girl abroad was languishing a little, sinking into uncertainty.

  I sat myself down for a grand crème, a large frothy coffee with milk, at one of the many coffee bars to be found on every corner, and unfolded my map. With my index finger, I was tracing out that fifth arrondissement quartier when a soft voice broke my concentration: ‘Are you lost?’

  I had been vaguely aware that someone was at the next table, but I hadn’t paid him any attention. In fact, I don’t think I had even registered that my neighbour was male. I lifted my head and saw that he was staring at me. Intently. Quizzically. Smiling. Warmly. Good-looking.

  He had spoken in English. It took me a moment to register this, and then it disappointed me.

  ‘Lost? Moi? Mais non, merci beaucoup.’

  If he had been French, I might have tried out my Jeanne Moreau flutter. He had remarkable eyes, more violet than blue. His black hair was cut short in a conventional style and he had rather perfect ears, which was not something I would normally notice – I don’t have an ear fetish – but his ears were … well, perfect. Not too big and sitting neatly to his head.

  ‘Non, je ne suis pas lost.’ Best French accent accompanied by a carefree laugh. Nonchalant. I was not lost. I knew which street I was in. I was at a loose end, you might say.

  ‘Well, you’re studying a map, so I assumed … Can I help in some way? I know the city well.’

  ‘I’m looking for a bed.’

  His smile widened into a broad grin.

  ‘No, no, excusez-moi, I mean …’ My cheeks began to pink. Lobster, not the most flattering colour. I felt like a right fool. ‘What I mean is, I’m searching for cheap digs.’

  ‘There are several pensions in the vicinity. Finish your coffee, I’ll show you the way. What’s your name?’ He threw coins on his table for both our orders and stood up, not waiting to learn my name or to allow me to finish my coffee. He was taller than I had expected, elegant, well-turned-out even in denims. Someone had ironed that shirt, and even his dungaree jacket was immaculate. Crisp. My mother would have described him as ‘expensive-looking’.

  ‘Let me take that.’

  Without another word, he drew my rucksack from the chair opposite and hooked it over his shoulders. I hastily folded my map and stuck it into the back pocket of my jeans. He set off on the pavement beyond the boundary of the café and turned left. I followed a step or two behind, watching my belongings being borne along the street by a stranger. If he disappeared with everything I owned, I still had my savings. I had no idea where we were going but he seemed confident and kind, so I allowed myself to trust and be led.

  He steered me through narrow, winding lanes to two lodging houses, situated on opposite sides of the same street. Both landladies shook their heads. Complet.

  The young anglais bowed his head, frowned and harrumphed. ‘I felt sure one of the two would have a spare room.’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll find somewhere.’ I was feeling awkward about putting him to any further inconvenience. ‘Honestly, I’ll sort it out. It’s just a case of
trial and error. I probably should have booked …’

  Peter was not listening to me. He had turned on his heels and was descending the street, weaving his way in and out of the sauntering populace with the ease of one who was comfortable within his body and probably did lots of sport. ‘There’s a small hotel I know,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘not far from where my parents live. It’s about a kilometre from here. It costs a few francs more …’

  But when we arrived the establishment had the same notice hung in its window. Complet.

  I glanced upwards. This place was definitely a cut above the other two. Its exterior was pretty, with bright red and pink geraniums in window boxes. ‘I couldn’t have afforded it in any case. Tight budget.’ I shrugged, making light of my slender means. My hand was raised to offer my thanks. He was scrutinizing me again with those percipient eyes. His facial skin was soft, not many years advanced beyond the downy stage, surely tender to touch, yet there was muscle about him, strength and intelligence. On second observation, he was seriously dishy.

  ‘You’ve been very kind. I …’

  Somewhere, a church bell tolled. Twice. Two o’clock.

  ‘It’s getting late. Come on, I have another idea.’

  ‘There’s really no need …’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  My companion was residing, he said, with his parents in the sixth arrondissement. It was a bit of a hike, beyond l’Odéon, turning at the famous theatre, south along rue de Vaugirard, right towards the church of Saint-Sulpice until our arrival, nudging rue de Rennes, at a Haussmann-style apartment building. Its austere entrance was exactly that: austere. Not even a caretaker. How come? Every French film located in Paris had a caretaker peering, scowling from within a cramped cubicle.

  The lift, landings and corridors were spotlessly clean, maintained to a gleam, with sparkling railings and brass doorknobs. I knew right then that I was out of my class.

  Peter pressed a finger to a bell on the third floor and slipped a key into the lock of a sturdy oak door. He encouraged me into the hall, which was impressive, daunting. At first glance I appraised it to be about the size of my bedroom in Kent. The open space, with its pristine white walls, spoke of silence, of absence, and smelt, discreetly, deliciously, of beeswax. There was no warmth, no clues to family intimacy or quotidian comings and goings; no wellingtons, overcoats, umbrellas, slippers, dog or cat baskets to make you feel real life was close at hand and you were welcome. I could have been entering a rather grand set of offices. My companion dropped his keys on a half-moon table set against the wall and called, ‘Paola?’