The House on the Edge of the Cliff

by Carol Drinkwater

  I was spinning from Agnes’s words. Confused.

  ‘Does Peter want to be an ambassador?’ I asked, but that was not the question circling in my head or the one I wanted an answer to.

  ‘I assume so. Why else would he be studying politics and law, like his father?’ She slapped the palm of her right hand against her left arm, causing her big bracelets to clink against one another, like the play of billiard balls. ‘In spite of the bats, we still have mosquitoes, so be warned. Sit still, Bruce, there’s a good chap.’ The dog was barking at his mistress’s bracelets. ‘You’ll need a wrap to protect your shoulders in the evenings and a decent anti-bug cream. I can furnish you with both if you’re not able to sort them out. You’ll find everything you need in one of the spare rooms, or pop into the village and buy what you prefer. I burn citronella – that keeps most of the blighters at bay. Never mind Peter. What are you planning on doing with your life? You’re young yet, of course.’

  I was pouring Soave into my tumbler. Stopped in my tracks. ‘You mean as a career?’

  ‘Have you made up your mind or are you just drifting, looking for inspiration?’

  ‘Mind made up long ago. My dad’s a musician. Live entertainment and all that. I want to be an actress.’

  ‘Theatre or cinema or both?’

  ‘Cinema’s my passion.’

  She bowed her head and made a face, which I couldn’t quite read. ‘Ambitious. Good girl. To achieve anything you have to be ambitious and slave away at it. I hope you read a great deal. Vital in your line of work. In mine as well. Bruce and I walk in nature every morning before the world is up and about. Study the changing light show, the shadows, tones. I commune with the sea and I read. Do help yourself to whatever you fancy in the library. To borrow, mind, and please, please, don’t leave the books out in the sun. The heat unglues their spines, yellows the pages and it drives me doo-lally how some guests abuse them. Oh, and I listen to music. There’s a splendid collection of LPs on the two shelves alongside the record player in the study. Otherwise up in my studio. Where is that nephew of mine? The spaghetti will be getting cold. Peter! Peter! Give him a shout, will you please, Grace?’

  ‘I’m right here.’

  Peter sauntered onto the vine terrace cradling a full glass of red wine. He was wearing neatly pressed shorts, khaki, almost the colour of the soap in my bathroom, and a crisp open-neck white shirt that no one would have believed had been stuffed and creased in his suitcase for three weeks.

  ‘I thought you were working, not ironing your clothes,’ I teased.

  He had caught the sun. Burnished-beetroot, even his delicious ears. It was odd but it suited him, gave a Latin dash to his otherwise conventional handsomeness.

  During the journey, I had been bothered as to whether Agnes was under the impression that Peter and I were a couple. Not just sleeping together but in the conventional adults’ approach to relationships. I was delighted and relieved to have been given my own room.

  Now that I’d met her, she didn’t strike me as a traditionalist. Still, I was puzzled by her remark that I would need to be patient, that Peter’s career would be a challenge for me. I mean, we weren’t planning on settling down. We were just having fun.

  After dinner we slid across to the veranda ‘to stretch out more comfortably’. It was vast and extended the full length of the sea-facing side of the property. There, Peter and his aunt spread themselves on reclining chairs, wine glasses on the floor at their sides, while I opted for one of the old wooden rockers, stuffing an embroidered cushion for comfort beneath my curled-up bare feet. Agnes untied her espadrilles and tossed them to the ground. Bruce snored contentedly at his mistress’s side. A scented joss stick was burning in a tall glass on the drinks cabinet behind us. From the record player in the study, piano keys played softly.

  ‘I love this,’ I said. ‘Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major, K 467. Second movement. It’s amazing.’ I was showing off. Too many glasses of white wine. I knew next to nothing about classical music but I had seen the Swedish film Elvira Madigan the previous year at an arty cinema in Oxford Street in London and had fallen in love with the soundtrack. This was it.

  Agnes glanced across at me with an amused glint in her heavenly blue eyes, a little surprised. ‘Clever girl,’ she said. ‘Can you identify the pianist?’

  I didn’t have a clue.

  Beyond the cliff’s edge, with its dramatic drop to the sea, the sky spread out above us, navy and star-laden. None of us said a word. Even Agnes was silenced in the face of the night’s splendours. Its tranquillity. Its perfect harmony. Only the cicadas remained busy, sawing noisily in their quest for love. Peter reached a hand in my direction and curled the tips of his fingers round my wrist. I could feel him nudging me to set off for bed, but I was settled, content where I was. Releasing his grip, I lifted both my arms and gathered up my long hair, twisting it into a knot atop my head, then allowed my hands to fall into my lap.

  ‘Well, that’s me done for the day. Leave the table. I’ll do the dishes in the morning. I’m always up and about at five. It’s the perfect time to get all the chores behind me while I drink my first bowl of coffee before a walk. Come on, Bruce boy.’ Agnes bent for her espadrilles and prodded the sleeping dog’s haunches with her painted toes. She wore a silver bracelet round her ankle, I noticed then. The dog staggered to his feet and plodded to the door. His paws made clipping sounds against the stripped wood.

  ‘Goodnight, to you both.’ Agnes leaned over us one after the other and pecked our foreheads. ‘Sleep tight. Peter, put some cream on your skin before you peel like a piece of fruit.’ She turned to me. ‘Peter will tell you, dear, breakfast is whenever you want it. Coffee always on the go. You organize the rest according to your fancies. Sweet dreams.’ With that, she and her hound swept into the main body of the house. I could hear her humming the Mozart, into its third movement now, as she climbed the stairs to the tower, her studio and bedroom. The crown of the house, the bird’s-eye view, she’d claimed.

  We sat in silence for a time. My head was empty of thought. I was deliciously sated. Food, wine, cocktails, sun and swimming had worked their sorcery. I wanted nothing more than to scramble into bed in my own small cabin-room and be lulled to sleep by the freshness of those lavender-scented pillowcases.

  I rose and stretched, a good long yawn, and sauntered to the table. Peter was on his feet too. ‘Leave all that – you heard what my aunt said.’

  ‘I’ll just take them through and stack them in the sink.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I want to. In any case, I’m not ready to sleep yet.’

  Peter, behind me, wrapped his arms around me locking my spine and buttocks against him. ‘Neither am I,’ he mumbled in my ear.

  I gently extricated myself. ‘I’ll see you up there.’ I was beginning to take on board the intensity of his emotions. Wherever I was, that was where he wanted to be. It made me a little uneasy about what would be expected of me, and a little claustrophobic. I dreaded wounding him, that was the last thing I wanted, but I wasn’t up for commitment, not ready for it. However Peter pictured our relationship now and in the future, I felt sure it was not in synch with my vision. Agnes’s words had set me thinking, and it was on that evening that I decided I should distance myself from him. Just a bit.

  I felt guilty that he had left Paris for me, although I had been, and still was, colossally grateful for his kindnesses. And I was incredibly fond of him. Agnes had referred to me as family, which was a bit far-fetched, although I was super-pleased to be included in their company. I was fascinated by her, a little mesmerized. She was different, odd but attractively so. She was Bohemian, a free spirit. I wanted to emulate her. Bohemian was groovy. She would surely understand that I was not ready for commitment.

  Peter upstairs, I was alone in that spectacular environment. It was thrilling. All cares about my parents and my future or the ugliness of events in Paris, about Peter’s feelings for me melted to an acc
eptable softness. Like chocolate in the hot sun. I felt as though I was mistress of this universe. I was tempted to rush barefoot, arms flung wide, to the beach and throw myself naked into the phosphorescent water for a moonlit dip, but as I didn’t know the currents, the path had some sharp stones and I was definitely tipsy, I thought better of it.

  Agnes had warned me about the dangers of swimming. There was a steep shelf in the water. It fell away within metres. You were out of your depth before you realized it. ‘You need to know the bays,’ she’d said, ‘and the time you choose to swim. On the up side, there are some astounding underwater rock formations, and caves with Neolithic paintings. They’re well worth a visit, but I advise against making those discoveries alone. Speak to Peter. He knows every inlet and cove, almost every pebble, along this stretch of coast. You’ll be safe with him at your side.’

  I finished the clearing up and slipped outside to sit cross-legged for a while. I was beyond the veranda’s edge, like a Buddha on the grass, inhaling the nocturnal scents. It was splendorous, too beyond-my-wildest-dreams to find myself there. The pine resin was the perfume most dominant, released into the cooler air after a long hot day. I listened to the crickets, watched the stars, hoping for the white line of a shooter, but saw none. The sky was inky-black now and still.

  When I climbed the stairs, I put my head round the door of Peter’s room. He had left it ajar, waiting for me, his bedside light still illumined. A book of Nietzsche had fallen to the floor. ‘Sleep tight, Peter,’ I mouthed soundlessly. He was already deep in slumber, without a care in the world. I smiled and tiptoed two doors back to my own blissful abode.

  Too excited for sleep, I crossed to the window and leaned out, star-gazing. Still no glittery sprays of white magic. It didn’t matter.

  As a child, I had watched by my bedroom window for shooting stars. They were harder to see in England because the sky was frequently cloudy or it was raining, unlike this astonishing vista. My dad had told me shooting stars were lucky – everybody believed that, I learned later, it wasn’t Dad’s magic formula – and when I saw one or caught sight of a meteor shower I should always make a wish. Under such auspicious circumstances, he promised, my wishes were bound to come true. Mum, who brought God into most subjects, said shooting stars were God’s way of showering blessings upon us, which is why our dreams come true when we wish upon them.

  I closed my eyes. What did I wish for now? First, that my dad would be gentle with my mum and the fighting between them would cease. What else? To stay here? To be as free and independent as Agnes? To be a film star, which had been my most profound wish since I was little, or just to continue as I was at the moment for as long as possible without responsibilities?

  I wished that this summer could go on for ever, but as I knew it couldn’t, I added an addendum to the wish. After this was over, I wanted to come back to Heron Heights one day and stand where I was at that moment, looking out at the sea, and have a perfect life.

  It was a massive wish, but that’s what wishes are, aren’t they? Dreaming the impossible, wanting the whole damn caboodle.

  Oh, but how soon my carefreeness was to end.

  The Present

  I never managed to keep my promise to George. It was made in haste, but I had intended to meet him again at the creek, as I had agreed. My non-arrival must have flipped him out. It must have been the turning point.

  I rose at five having slept fitfully, dressed quickly, hair not brushed, face splashed with cold water, eyes puffy, hurried down the stairs, picked up the keys to the boat, then descended the beach steps in barely a shaft of light. This had to be the last time, I knew that. Somehow I had to persuade him to leave, go away, but I hadn’t yet found a solution, the enticement that would send him on his way.

  If I offered him a carrot of hope for the future? Time together in London? But I hated the thought of tricking him. Of such duplicity.

  That morning, I’d had the presence of mind to bring a towel and I waded out to the craft in seawater that chilled my flesh. Once on deck, I dried myself and swung back to the house to confirm that I wasn’t being observed. The snug world of Peter’s family was in dreamland. Oblivious to the danger that awaited them. No one in sight. Perfect. I drew up the anchor, slipped the key in the ignition, gave the motor some choke and turned it over, but it refused to fire. I was puzzled. I tried the key once more but still no luck. It turned over but did not ignite. The battery wasn’t flat. Everything had been in good working order the previous morning when I had anchored her. My heart was in my mouth. I had to honour this rendezvous. I had to be there. I could not enrage the man further. Lives depended on it. I wanted no more threats. I wanted him dealt with. A clean break. I was grappling, scrabbling for the torch to try to understand the problem. I feared that numerous attempts at turning the engine would kill the battery, wake someone and serve no real purpose. I was early. I had time. Overhead a gull screeched, making me jump.

  I took a deep breath, wiped away the sweat gathering on my brow and in my armpits. There was no reason to get alarmed. I bent low to read the fuel gauge. The boat was not out of diesel. So what was the problem? Was there water or dirt in the system? I checked that the air vents to the fuel tank were open. All fine. Had one of the filters got clogged? I was on my hands and knees crawling in the semi-rising light. I had to fix this. I was whimpering, chuntering to myself. What else could be causing the problem? Why this morning of all mornings? I lifted myself to my haunches, pulled out the choke knob – had I flooded the engine? No. I turned it again. Still no engagement.

  ‘What the –’

  Peter would know what to do. He would solve this in seconds. But I couldn’t confide in him.

  I closed my eyes, hands over my face. I could picture that figure in black plodding, as the sun rose higher, to our appointed meeting place, waiting there on the beach, gazing out to sea, angry and disappointed, plotting his riposte. Plotting his revenge. Something bad.

  Swimming to the cove was out of the question. It was many more kilometres along the coast than I could manage and time was not on my side. I swung myself up and over the side of the boat, into the water, nearly ricking my ankle, and waded to the shore. ‘Promise you’ll come,’ he’d said, ‘or I’ll do something bad.’

  All I wanted was for him to disappear out of our lives. No more threats.

  1968

  Late June, meeting Pierre

  On the bus to Marseille. A bus of many colours, of reds and blues and sticky-rock dreams. Mountainous sea road. Rounding the curves, the bus swayed and rolled and bounced along its way.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Peter had called to me as I set off, hair flying, bag slung over my shoulder.

  I nearly answered, ‘Morocco.’ It was equally exotic here, though. I might have been in Africa. Palm trees leaning towards the horizon. Olives and dates and thick black coffee for breakfast.

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ He was trailing a few steps behind me as I set off down the path.

  I shook my head and waved without looking back. ‘See you later.’ I screwed up my eyes. I didn’t want to pain him – I didn’t want to ill-treat him but I had to claim my independence. ‘I’ll see you later for a swim.’

  Evergreen oaks all bent in on themselves, sharing tribal secrets, lined my route. Sandy inlets, flooded with emerald green sea, beckoned. Nature’s molten jewellery.

  I was en route to the mighty port city, which stood forty minutes by bus. Through the window, I stared down on tourists slathered in oil, horizontal in the bays or bobbing in the shallows. Matchstick-sized holidaymakers. Crisp white yachts.

  From the diesel-reeking bus station bustling with crowds, I strode to the port. Sloe-eyed sailors from the Middle East cast me lascivious looks. It was new to me, the way men looked at me, hanging on me their drooling hunger. I wondered, might it be because I’ve said farewell to my virginity? Invisible changes had happened, were happening, within me. An aura of womanliness was peeping through and unfamiliar pheromones
seeping out. Swarthy dark-haired young men drinking in cafés gave me a wink, a grin, blew kisses with pouted lips. A tongue slipped loose like a lizard’s. I turned my glance elsewhere, acting coy, falsely oblivious to the scrutiny, though I confess, deep down, I was flattered by the attention even if I knew I shouldn’t be. Peter would not be impressed. But I was not tethered to Peter. I was young and free.

  Belle-époque grandeur, buildings you could eat, like oversized wedding cakes, were surrounded by breezeblock hell. Windows open, screaming infants. Pneumatic drills digging up the streets, dredging for space for future skyscrapers. After the quietude of Agnes’s hillside, these urban activities were an assault on my senses.

  I skipped with a bounce, in plimsolls, cut-off denim shorts and skimpy top. Midriff exposed. Stomach not sufficiently flat. All the wine. Must lose weight before drama school. A tad plump, I foolishly judged myself. The wind from the sea blew my hair. It flew and flapped and sailed. I was in fine fettle, swimming daily, eating healthily. I stopped to buy a postcard and stamp for my folks from a newspaper kiosk. Left Paris, made it south. Having fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Xx. My dad’s phrase when he was being lighthearted and I was off to the youth club on a Sunday evening.