The House on the Edge of the Cliff

by Carol Drinkwater

  So, I was in the presence of a blackmailer. And a liar. And possibly an imposter. But if he wasn’t Pierre – Pierre risen from the dead – how could he be so intimate with my fragile memories?

  ‘Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘Grace Gissing. It has a ring to it, wouldn’t you say? Those two Gs, they fit nicely together. They were made for one another. Like us.’

  I leaned forward and started the engine, surreptitiously checking the time on my watch. Two twenty. The police station would be opening again shortly, after its closure for lunch. Or. Or. There was a point further along, this side of Cassis, where the road, this muddy lane, ran perilously close to a falaise, a sheer rock drop. It would take little more than the twist of my wrists to spin the small car in the merciless wind over the edge and plummet us both into the raging sea.

  Back into the water whence this beast, this lunatic, had risen.

  But I did neither.

  1968

  Paris

  The next day dawned and I didn’t move out of the Armstrong-Soameses’ apartment. Instead, I was introduced to Peter’s parents, who behaved as though they were rather grateful for my presence in as much as they displayed any interest in me at all.

  ‘You’re very welcome to stay with us unless you’re a Red.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your political affiliation?’ His father, Sir Roderick, cross-examined me in the kitchen over a pot of tea after Peter had left for the Sorbonne. ‘We hope you’re not here as an accomplice, a stirrer?’

  ‘I’m on holiday. I’m going to be an actress.’

  ‘An actress – well, you’re certainly pretty enough.’

  ‘That’s what Peter said.’

  ‘My son has a good eye. Well, then, during your holiday, you can keep our young Peter occupied, away from politics and his foolish talk of revolution. Fill his head with sex. Tire him out.’

  ‘Roddy. She’s just a girl.’

  Peter was studying political sciences at the Sorbonne. He was involved with ‘certain groups’ his father vociferously disapproved of, dismissing them as ‘dangerous Reds’, and one student leader, Daniel Cohn-Bendit, as ‘an undesirable Jew’, which sent Peter into a furious spin. With reason. Even so, Peter struck me as the most unlikely of ‘Reds’. But what did I know?

  Peter’s activities left me with plenty of free time to do with as I pleased. By the time I woke, Peter had left for college. I bumped into his mother occasionally, a distant, preoccupied woman in a satin housecoat and high-heeled slippers with fur trimmings shaped like pom-poms. She had legs that went on for ever, like Cyd Charisse.

  ‘Do you like dancing?’ I asked her.

  She gazed at me as though she had never set eyes on me before. She smoked incessantly, drank endless cups of black coffee and seldom uttered a word. Each time I pottered into the kitchen, her head would turn in surprise and she’d look me up and down as though she knew she had met me somewhere before but couldn’t quite recall where. ‘Peter’s little friend?’ She was confirming the fact to herself.

  I’d nod and turn tail. I had no desire to be rude. I felt sorry for her. Once she mentioned in passing that she attended her AA meetings to have somewhere to go, to pass her afternoons with people she could converse with, who didn’t harp on incessantly about the state of the world and ‘British bloody politics’ in particular.

  ‘I don’t mind listening to their tales of woe,’ she’d mutter, between long drags on her cigarette – she frequently had two on the go at once, one locked between her nicotine-stained fingers, the other smoking in an ashtray somewhere. If I was in the apartment in the early evening, having returned from an afternoon at the cinema, I would sometimes run into her in the kitchen. Still wearing her coat, she was home from her AA meeting. Head in the fridge, scrabbling for ice cubes, scooping them up with her manicured fingernails, to chill the large gin and tonic she had poured for herself.

  She never remembered my name. I sometimes asked myself whether she could even recall her own.

  Peter’s father was a different kettle of fish altogether. Unlike his wife, he was sharp of mind. He missed nothing, was keen to hear what was going on, as though his diplomatic role was to sound out the points of view of Youth versus State. I could handle the questions, but not the other thing. He was lecherous. If I changed my perfume, he commented on it. No one else noticed. He negotiated me into darkened corners, private moments between the pair of us, engaging me in some trumped-up debate about the state of affairs in France and what I, as a young student, might have gleaned or overheard. All the while, he was leaning over me, never quite touching me, except with his hot breath on my neck. Yet I always felt when we separated as though he had spread his hands all over me, coating me in an invisible webbing of sordidness.

  ‘Trust our young Peter to have unearthed a gem like you. How old are you? Stay as long as you like. And if you’re at a loose end for lunch, pop into the embassy and ask them to buzz me …’

  It goes without saying that I never did. And I never mentioned these rather unsavoury exchanges to Peter.

  Saturday, 6 April 1968

  MARTIN LUTHER KING KILLED BY SNIPER’S BULLET

  While we were out strolling by the Seine, Peter’s attention was drawn to these headlines. He hurried to a kiosk and bought a copy of Le Monde, which we took to a café.

  ‘“On the evening of 4 April at a hotel in Memphis …”’ Peter read the news aloud. ‘“… The evolution of the situation in Vietnam has been eclipsed by the murder, on Thursday evening, of the pastor Martin Luther King, killed by a single bullet to the head. Race riots have broken out in several American towns. The President, Lyndon Johnson, has postponed his trip to Honolulu for an indefinite period. America is shocked and sad.”’

  Peter placed the paper silently on the table.

  My eyes welled with tears. I wasn’t as au fait with politics as Peter, but I certainly knew that King was one of the good guys.

  9 April

  Sir Roderick and Peter’s mum were glued to the evening news when I arrived back on the evening of 9 April. The TV channel was transmitting the funeral of Martin Luther King. I would have liked to watch it, but felt awkward.

  ‘Where’s Peter?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Come in, sit down.’ I shuffled into the living room, hovered uncertainly. Sir Roderick was patting the sofa cushion alongside him.

  ‘Has my son mentioned anything to you about Daniel Cohn-Bendit, an anarchist currently residing in Paris?’

  ‘Nope,’ I replied, and made a dash for my room. I hated the way he tried to coerce me into telling tales. I knew nothing about the anarchist, but even if I had, I wouldn’t have spilled the beans.

  I had bought a beret that afternoon and wanted to try it on. It looked groovy, I decided. I bunched up my hair and stood gazing at myself in the mirror. Bonnie Parker. Maybe I could be a sixties Bonnie Parker, though I wasn’t willowy like Faye Dunaway.

  Peter’s parents were more screwed-up than mine. Maybe I should think about moving on.

  12 April

  Peter and I attended a solidarity demonstration in support of a German student, Rudi Dutschke, otherwise known as Red Rudi, who had been shot in the head by an anti-Communist, Josef Bachmann, in Germany. I wore my new black beret. Afterwards, I accompanied Peter and a group of fellow students to a bar that, late in the evenings, was transformed into a really lively club, Chez George, 11 rue des Canettes, on the Left Bank. This was the first time Peter had introduced me to any of his friends. We drank ice-cold beers, and everyone was smoking heavily, except Peter and me. I think we were the only two people in the entire city who didn’t smoke. Peter talked lucidly about politics, the state of the world and what could feasibly be achieved. His friends listened to his words with respect. They seemed to hold him in such high regard. I was also surprised but rather chuffed that several of them assumed we were a couple.

  They discussed the philosopher Herbert Marcuse and Daniel Cohn-B
endit. Lionel, one of the students, told the table that Cohn-Bendit had been ordered to Paris from Nanterre University to appear before a disciplinary committee. He referred to Cohn-Bendit as Dany and it dawned on me then that this was the ‘anarchist’ Peter’s father had quizzed me about. None of the others had heard this news, except Peter, who seemed to have a keen antenna for the arc of events unfolding and the as-yet-unpainted political landscape.

  ‘The sixth of May,’ he confirmed. ‘We ought to be there to protest against the hearing, to show our support for him and his colleagues.’

  And I, along with everyone else, raised a hand. Comrades together.

  That spring, I spent most of my days mooching about on the Left Bank, walking miles, gazing into shop windows – sexy lingerie way beyond my budget – munching on jambon baguette sandwiches in the Luxembourg Park. I tried to keep out of the apartment when Peter wasn’t there. His father was getting too amorous. He’d tried to kiss me in the doorway to my room. Seriously creepy.

  It was the evenings I looked forward to most, discovering new places with Peter. Our outings were almost always spent engaged in political debate, and I was beginning to take an interest, especially as his father was asking me questions about so many people I had never heard of.

  The mood most evenings was optimistic, sometimes volcanic, and I was rubbing shoulders with their fire, their determination to finish off de Gaulle and herald a new order. I couldn’t deny that their passion was electrifying, their ambition daunting: to bring down the system. But I was on the outside looking in, not actually participating.

  If I got bored of all the theoretical speeches or I couldn’t follow or understand what was being discussed, I wandered over to the lovely old jukebox that glowed in the corner of the bar we frequented, slipped in a centime or two and danced dreamily by myself. Occasionally a guy – no one from ‘our’ group – would saunter over and offer to buy me a beer. I always declined. I had the feeling that Peter, no matter his commitment to his cause, was observing me. His focus was partially tuned to my whereabouts and what I was up to. I thrilled to his attention. I really liked him, but that was as far as it had gone. We were just pals.

  One evening, after the gathering of comrades had broken up, Peter and I left the bar in the rue Saint-André-des-Arts, and strolled along boulevard Saint-Michel hand in hand. It was a perfect spring evening. I was beginning to feel very French and was fired with the optimism that had imbued the evening. I so hoped Peter was feeling that passion, too, and that he would pause, lean me against one of the statues in the place Saint-Michel – the black dragon spouting water, for example – and kiss me. One of those lingering French kisses that make you weak at the knees. But he didn’t. He never did.

  That night I lay in bed, disappointed. I wanted more.

  Peter cared for me, made me laugh, caused me to think deeply about the world, and he watched over me like the best brother but, I deduced, he didn’t fancy me. His world was taken up with politics, change, revolution.

  There were lighter moments. My friend seemed to be acquainted with every single club on the Left Bank. The best places to start the evening, the late-night spots for music, for dancing, socializing, bebopping. To my surprise, I discovered that Peter was an excellent dancer, very agile.

  Right up until his present heart condition, Peter has always loved to dance.

  Most of those candlelit evenings in Paris, ’68, were taken up with endless discussions over countless bottles of wine. While we talked, protests were erupting both in and beyond the capital. They had been breaking out, in minor ways, since January, Peter told me. Petty outbursts, minor groups at first, but the fire was being stoked. The common spirit was swelling with dreams of rebellion. Even I picked up on the outrage aimed at the establishment. It radiated outwards from every club and coffee bar we visited. Topple de Gaulle, bring down the government, change the education system: these were the objectives. Limitless possibilities for everyone, no matter their class: these were the dreams of the young in ’68.

  And we were young.

  La Révolution arrive.

  Such slogans daubed across doorways and walls brought an embittered smile to the face of Peter’s father.

  ‘“The revolution is coming”? Over my dead body,’ he’d scoff at his son. ‘In my day you obeyed your parents. Listened to their wisdom. You young think you know everything but you know nothing, except how to make a noise. Riots! If this is what paying for a private education and a top-notch university delivers, I would have done better to send you out to work. You’ll be joining the long-hairs and peaceniks next, participating at sit-ins. Cowards, the lot of you. It will all come to nothing.’

  When Peter ignored him, his father turned to me. ‘Did my son tell you that he was on the anti-war march on Valentine’s Day, marching against the Vietnam War? When I was his age, I spent Valentine’s Day trying to get my leg over.’

  I stormed out of the room. Foul man.

  It was time to do my own thing, maybe move out.

  The third of May was a cold, blustery day. Students were gathering in the front square outside the main building of the Sorbonne. There was a mood of solemnity in the air. We were there to protest against the previous day’s lock-out at the Sorbonne’s sister university in the Paris suburb of Nanterre, and now closed for an indefinite period. Peter had invited me along.

  At the outset, the students numbered about three hundred. They were calling for changes to what they described as an ‘outmoded education system’. The majority were undergraduates from Nanterre, and activist colleagues of Cohn-Bendit. As the day wore on, the crowd began to swell. People were calling, jeering, but it was harmless. There was no violence. In spite of this, and for no apparent reason, the rector of the Sorbonne or one of his associates called in the police. They pulled up in vans and began to surround the university buildings. The atmosphere changed instantly to threatening, scary, confrontational. Peter and his comrades remained calm so I kept my fears to myself. I closed my eyes. No violence, I prayed. I stepped tight to Peter, who was deep in conversation with a couple of bearded guys I hadn’t seen before.

  By four in the afternoon, the college was ringed by police and CRS officers, the French riot brigade. There was the odd skirmish when a student shouted at them, ‘Foutez le camp! Get lost!’ but little other trouble. Even so, the police began to arrest people for no reason, or for stupid trumped-up stuff. I watched as perfectly affable demonstrators were taken away. Understandably, this provoked outrage.

  ‘Are the flics, the police, trying to create a situation?’ I asked. I was amazed. Everyone had been cool, peaceful. The university was against its own scholars, and was inciting anger, anarchy. The mood of the day had shifted to Us and Them. The undergraduates were being warned that to protest was unacceptable. As word of this spread, others – students, young people, intellectuals, ordinary Parisians – began to pour in from all over the city, offering support to the demonstrators.

  Eventually – inevitable by then – pockets of fighting broke out, and the Sorbonne rector declared the university closed. The doors were bolted. Just like that. No one could gain access.

  Had that been the intention from the outset?

  ‘Hey, my research material’s inside.’

  ‘My books.’

  ‘We have rights!’

  ‘You have no charter to bar us from our college.’

  Raised voices. Raised fists. A few were determined to gain entry, but as soon as they took a step, the riot police closed in. Up to a point, their presence quelled the brewing animosity. No one wanted trouble. Still, many, Peter included, were now unable to access their belongings: their lockers with files, clothes, study material.

  ‘This is only the second time in seven hundred years the Sorbonne has shut up shop,’ Peter informed me. ‘The other occasion was in 1940 when the Nazis took control of Paris. So, you can see, it’s pretty serious.’

  As an immediate response to the closure of their seat of learning, l�
��Union Nationale des Étudiants called a strike, effective forthwith. They issued the following demands:

  Reopen the Sorbonne

  Withdraw the police

  Release those arrested

  The gap between college officials and students was widening as discontent spread. The mood was inflammatory. The immediate consequence was for certain political bodies to take advantage, to incite further unrest, playing on the situation to bolster their own ideologies, or so argued Peter. The entire city was now engaged on one side or the other. Me, too. I was with Peter.

  The moment we walked into the hallway at the Armstrong-Soameses’ residence, a row broke out between Peter and his father. The upshot was that Peter was forbidden to attend any more rallies. Worse, his father threatened to lock him in his room if he disobeyed orders one more time.

  That was seriously outrageous.

  Peter, understandably, hit the roof. He was twenty. Perhaps in legal terms not yet an adult, but still far too old to be told what to think or do.

  I slid off to my quarters. I wanted no part of the row. I overheard my name being bandied back and forth. Peter was defending me against I knew not what accusations. I stayed where I was while his father yelled at him, ‘Pack your bags, and take your sweetheart with you.’

  This was followed by the slamming of doors, another round of verbal abuse, incoherent words. I couldn’t follow most of it.

  I remained in my room.

  One of the reasons I had left England was to escape family disputes and I didn’t want to become embroiled in this one. No matter my affection for Peter.

  I was beginning to think that soon it would be time to quit Paris, to head south, although I had no specific destination in mind. The climate in the city was nerve-racking. People in shops were edgy. Peter’s friends were tense, smoking heavily. It could explode at any moment. On the other hand, the idealism was infectious. It swept you along, and part of me wanted to stay, to witness history, to play my part in what was beginning to feel like something truly momentous.