The House on the Edge of the Cliff

by Carol Drinkwater

  I froze. ‘I …’

  ‘The boy George spent his childhood in and out of care homes and, later, prison, frequently in secure wards. Petty crimes at first, then theft, followed by an armed robbery conviction. There was a brief sojourn in a mental asylum. He partnered with his brother in the drugs business for some years until they were both locked away. As I said, there was a long history of violence and mental instability. Low-income upbringing. Episodes of truancy. Parents divorced. Not much of a family life had they been given, the Gissing brothers. Neither of them formed any lasting relationships. As for the facial scar, George got into a fight with some fellow detainees. There was a crowbar, broken bottles, not an uncommon story of prison life.’

  Pierre had never spoken to me of his childhood, his life in England, as I had never spoken of mine.

  ‘Alas, neither of these men left much of a legacy to humankind. Unlike your husband. George’s autopsy report, by the way, states that he died of a heart attack. He was dead before his body hit the water.’

  I closed my eyes, reliving those final minutes on the cliff-top with Harry and George.

  ‘He was grieving the loss of his brother, his only surviving relative. I suspect he was in your vicinity because he hoped to make contact with your husband. I surmise the only person George Gissing felt he could turn to, after his brother’s death, was the man who had shown kindness to his brother. Your husband. There was no one else left and not much of a horizon out there for him.’

  I pictured George on the beach at dawn. His words: There is only you, Grace. You are all that’s left. Over the years, I dreamed that when we eventually met, as I always knew we would, you would be the one to unchain me. To make me whole again.

  Pierre must have spoken kindly of me then. Could I have helped George? I doubted it. But if I had known the whole story, the real story, might I have been able to assist him, to offer him some compassion, consolation? What had he hoped for?

  ‘I’d best be on my way. Give my regards to Mr Soames, wish him a speedy recovery. It is unlikely I shall need to trouble either of you again. However, I will look out for your films. It’s been a pleasure, Madame.’

  Recovery

  I was perched on the foot of our bed looking out to sea, trawling through the past. The past and the recent events. The Confidential Letter to Grace was in my left hand. I was tapping it gently against my right.

  I should tear it up, shouldn’t I? Peter had made the request on our journey home from the clinic. ‘The letter I left upstairs for you, Grace …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tear it up, will you, please?’

  ‘I was rather hoping …’

  ‘No point in keeping it there.’

  ‘Don’t you want to tell me what’s in it?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not necessary for the present,’ he’d said.

  Was it connected to our old story? To Pierre? To George Gissing? I wanted to ask him about Pierre but I swallowed the question. Patience. In time, I would learn whatever it was he had to tell me.

  Peter was dozing, resting, out on the veranda where I had made up a bed for him. It was cool there, thanks to the two overhead fans. He preferred, he said, to be close to the outdoors, where he could watch the sea. It was also advisable, until he was stronger, to avoid the exertion of two flights of stairs.

  He was weak, but he was alive and home with me. His upper left leg and groin were covered with spectacular bruises from where the consultant had punctured the skin to connect up the apparatus that had sent a catheter on the journey through one of Peter’s blood vessels to his heart. I thought of little Harry and smiled at how proud he had been of his bruises. I pictured Gissing lifting the child to safety from the prison of rocks. I pictured Gissing tumbling to his death. Might death have been a blessing for him?

  I had not mentioned my meetings with Moulinet or Gissing to Peter. It was too soon. He needed peace of mind.

  Peter had survived a far more arduous operation than the medical team had originally anticipated. More importantly, miraculously, his heartbeat was back to normal, averaging sixty-four beats a minute. The risk that his heart might simply pack up due to over-exertion had been controlled and, according to his consultant, ‘There is no reason why he should not live a normal life for as long as any of the rest of us.’

  After two or three weeks of rest and recuperation, the clinic had promised me, my husband would be fighting fit again.

  I prayed so.

  I had spoken at length with both his daughters, on several occasions over the last few days, filling them in, reassuring them. We had agreed that they, along with their families, would return later in the summer, in August, by which time Peter would, if all went according to plan, be as fit as he had ever been. This time Sam hoped that her husband, Richard, would accompany her and then it would be a full house all set for a family holiday.

  There was nothing else for me to concern myself with, aside from the weekly check-ups at the clinic for the next month, then once every three months for the first year. Modern medicine. A miracle.

  It was evening. The swallows were swooping in a gold and hyacinth sky. Peter was perched in one of the old rattan loungers that had been part of the furniture as far back as Agnes’s tenure. I had a glass of white wine to hand, Peter was sipping weak tea. We were watching the sunset, allowing the tensions of the last few days to drain out of us. Imbibing nature’s beauty, side by side.

  On the small table to my left, alongside my wine, was Peter’s Confidential letter.

  I hadn’t destroyed it.

  ‘Any reason why you haven’t torn that darn thing up, as I requested, Grace?’

  ‘I thought you might want to read it to me. Or tell me what it says. It’s on my mind, you see.’

  George was on my mind. Pierre, too.

  There was a long silence while Peter deliberated.

  ‘Hand it over.’ He leaned a few inches towards me with his arm outstretched and I passed the envelope to him. Without opening it, but head bent to it and one hand fingering it as though he were reading braille, Peter recited softly:

  ‘My darling Grace,

  Now that I have gone from your life, or stepped aside while I wait for you to join me elsewhere, I feel that it is only right that I fill you in on a few facts.

  This is a story that goes back in time. It involves a man, Peter Gissing. I believe you loved him and loved him deeply. You knew him by the name of Pierre. Remember him? Actually, I rather hope you have forgotten him.

  I have kept a secret from you for all these years …’

  ‘Stop, Peter, please.’ I lifted myself from my seat, leaned over to my husband and placed a hand on his, the one holding the envelope. ‘Tear it up, Peter. It’s the past. We don’t need to go there.’

  He lowered his head, dropping the letter into his lap.

  ‘The fellow had filled you with so many drugs, Grace, I feared for your life when you went into the sea. He was encouraging you, playing with you. I had seen you both together, making love in the sand. I believed, persuaded myself, he didn’t care for you in any profound sense, not as I did. My jealousy knew no bounds. I swam out after you …’

  ‘But he didn’t die. You didn’t kill him, you know that. You do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Grace, but how do you?’ He turned to me. ‘Were you in contact with him?’

  I shook my head. ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted … Please continue.’

  ‘I swam out after you,’ he repeated softly. ‘Once I’d released you from his grasp and sent you back to shore, I had intended to follow directly, see you to safety, but Gissing grabbed me, pulled at my arm. “Leave the fucking chick alone,” he growled at me. I turned back to him, fighting to release my arm, which I thought he would break, such was the force with which he was holding me. I was kicking to stay afloat. I lifted a leg and booted him in the stomach or possibly the crotch. He let out a long groan. We began to fight, tussling in the water. I was calling out to
you to swim fast. There was blood in the water. His, mine, yours?’

  Peter stopped speaking, as though he had run out of battery.

  I had believed it had been Pierre calling to me. So stoned, I hadn’t differentiated between their voices.

  ‘He’s dead, Peter,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t need to know any more. We don’t need to take ourselves back to those unhappy yesterdays.’

  He waved me to silence, lost somewhere in that other life.

  ‘Gissing fought his way to the surface and grabbed me by the head, bending me backwards by the neck. I punched him hard. It carried all the weight of my disgust for him and the torment I felt at having lost you to him. It caught him in the face. I heard something crack. Had I fractured a bone? His? Not mine. He sank beneath the water in the darkening night. I was terrified. Had I killed him? Surely not killed him. I waited for him to resurface. I waited until my blood turned to ice, my limbs heavier than ballast, and then I waited no longer but turned and crawled fast for the shore. I abandoned him because … because … I wanted him dead, or gone from us, at least, but I was certain, almost certain, that he would take care of himself. He was the best swimmer I had ever encountered. He understood the sea better than I did.’

  ‘And so he made his way back to shore?’

  ‘No, no.’

  I waited, attempting patience.

  ‘No matter that I loathed every cell in his corrupt body, I couldn’t leave him to drown. I turned seawards. He possibly would have died if I hadn’t gone back for him. He was in a mess. I hauled him ashore some distance from here, swimming, dragging him half-conscious. It was slow going. I berthed him in a cave in one of the coves half a mile or so from our bay. I stayed with him some minutes and then … then …’

  I took a sip of wine, waiting, holding my breath.

  Peter, his head lowered, appeared to be crying.

  ‘I threatened him. If he came anywhere near you again, I’d turn him over to the police for what he was. A drug dealer. I told him the keys would be in his car and I wanted him and his belongings gone, out of the house, out of my sight by morning.’

  We sat in silence.

  ‘I’m not proud of myself, Grace. I lived with that guilt added to the loss of you for five years.’

  ‘But you saved him.’ It was not as George had claimed it. How could I have allowed him to feed doubt against Peter, even for a moment?

  ‘When the car was still there in the morning, I feared he had perished overnight or, at best, had decided to make a getaway on foot. I had no idea why he didn’t come back. All I cared was that I had you.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But you were gone. My threats to him had been in vain. Your heart had turned from me. I’d lost your love, and then you vanished from my life entirely. I need a drink, please, Grace.’

  I rose, unsteadily. ‘What can I bring you?’

  ‘Better make it water.’

  I hurried to the kitchen and returned with a full glass. Peter drank thirstily, draining it.

  ‘More?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Five years later, Gissing was arrested in Spain. He gave Agnes’s name – well, this address and our names – as a contact. Damn cheek of him. To stand bail, money or … I’m not sure why now. The Spanish police contacted her. She remembered him, not fondly I might add. It seems that after you and I had left for Paris, somebody broke into the house and helped themselves to a few valuables. Of course, Agnes had no proof and didn’t mention it to me until he reappeared in our lives.’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Agnes telephoned me in Paris. My first reaction was profound relief. I was bloody glad the blackguard had survived. I flew to Barcelona where Gissing was awaiting trial. Blackmail, I think, was his intention, a threat against me for violence. He wanted money. I refused but offered to act as his legal representation for no fee. I believed I owed him that. I managed to secure his deportation. He served a short sentence in the UK and then was at large to get on with his insalubrious life.’

  We sat in silence. I was asking myself what I would have done differently if I had known that Pierre was alive. ‘You have nothing to berate yourself for,’ I said eventually.

  ‘He asked after you, Grace.’

  ‘In Spain?’ I was listening to the sea, breathing slowly.

  Peter nodded. ‘He accused me of destroying his chance of happiness with you. I told him, quite truthfully, that I didn’t have a clue where to find you. I told him that you were settled and that your life had moved on. I warned him off making contact with you.’

  I let out a long slow exhalation. Pierre had asked after me. Might he have cared for me as I had him? He had spoken of me to George. That was evident. ‘Is that it?’ My voice was quavering.

  ‘He got in touch with me once again nine or ten years later, requesting large sums of money. He said I’d ruined his life, that I’d kept the two of you apart. He’d go to the police, he said, report me for attempted murder. I told him to go to hell. I never heard from him again.’

  I took a breath, asking myself what if Pierre had found me, what if I’d taken him in?

  ‘So, there you have it, Grace. The whole rather sordid story. If I couldn’t have you, I was determined you wouldn’t throw yourself away on him. You had too much to offer. Arrogance and jealousy on my part.’

  If Pierre had found me … It would never have come to anything. Our worlds were universes apart.

  Peter lifted the last page of writing – his hands were shaking – and read aloud,

  ‘Grace, my darling, you have been the best gift my life has given me. Even in the years when we were separated, you were always an essential part of me. I would have done anything to win your heart.

  There are two Peters. Both within me. I hope you will remember the best of me and find it in your heart to love me, and to forgive the other.

  Yours for ever, Peter

  ‘That is what I wanted you to know, Grace.’

  Tears were dropping down my cheeks. I felt so deeply grateful that Peter was there to relay his written words and that I was not alone on this deck, in mourning, reading the letter in silence to myself. My life had been blessed. With the miracle of Peter’s recovery, and with his unswerving love.

  I sipped my wine while Peter tore the envelope and its contents into tiny pieces.

  I placed my glass on the small table between us and rose to my feet, brushing the damp from my cheeks with the back of my hands. Night had fallen. In the distance, far out to sea, a boat was making its silent passage to its destination. Its lights shone on the water, creating a small pool of silvery brightness, a beacon of hope widening as it moved. I stood behind my husband and rested my arms on his shoulders, bending low into him, my cheek brushing his. I kissed his head softly, nudging my chin through his grey hair.

  He lifted his hands to take mine.

  Somewhere, inland, a nightingale began to sing, while on the beach beneath us the waves rolled and pounded as they had done for as many millennia as this powerful, magical sea had been in existence, guarding its subaquatic secrets.

  And here we were, in this weather-worn old house, Agnes watching over us, bearing witness to nature’s force and magnificence, grateful to be in one another’s company, in silence, with, on this remarkable night, no particular place to go. Except onwards, surviving, hand in hand, side by side.

  Acknowledgements

  My very special thanks go to my team at Curtis Brown literary agency, led by Jonathan Lloyd. Curtis Brown is an exceptional ‘home’ and I am honoured to be counted among its clients. Thank you for helping me put my writing out there. Special thanks to Alice Lutyens, Melissa Pimentel and everyone in the Accounts Department.

  At Michael Joseph Books, Penguin, I would like to say a huge thank-you to my editor and publishing director, Maxine Hitchcock, and her two editors, Matilda McDonald and Clare Bowron. Your enthusiasm has been a terrific buoy. My copyeditor, Hazel Orme, and I have now w
orked together on several books, and I so appreciate Hazel’s clarity and beady-eyed brilliance.

  There are so many others on the team at MJ whom I do not always have the opportunity to meet so I would like to say un grand merci to those of you who work within marketing, sales, publicity, Nick Lowndes, who is overseeing the proofs, and design for The House on the Edge of the Cliff.

  As always, there are friends who have been there for me throughout the writing process, offering me meals, a bed when I lacked one, laughter and a patient ear when I needed to talk things through. I am raising a glass to us all. Special thanks to Jane Thynne, who has allowed me to use the Philip Kerr quote at the top of the book.

  Last, but certainly not least, my very special husband, Michel Noll. Je t’aime.

  Reading Group Discussion Points

  Discuss the role of the settings in the novel. For example, why do you think the author chose Paris and the student demonstrations as the backdrop to young Grace’s early encounters with Peter?

  What role does the house on the edge of the cliff play in the story?

  How do you think Grace’s character changes and develops over each time period of the novel?

  Do you think Grace should have confided in Peter about Pierre/George’s reappearance? In what ways might it have changed the outcome for the three of them?

  Discuss the societal norms of the sixties which are touched upon in the novel. Do you think the sixties were liberating for Grace, or not?

  What do you think drew Grace to Pierre in the sixties?

  Discuss the theme of family in the story. How does Grace’s upbringing affect her subsequent relationships? How does Peter’s family shape their marriage?

  What role does Agnes play in the story? What influence, if any, does she have on young Grace? How are the two women similar?

  What are the political influences on the novel? How does the political scene in each time period impact on the lives of the principal characters?