The Girl on the Cliff

by Lucinda Riley

  After everyone had chipped in to clear up, Nancy, with a gleam in her eyes, suggested they go up to the drawing room and play charades.

  “Oh, y-yes!” Anna clapped her hands together. “I love charades. Let’s go!”

  As they climbed the stairs up to the ground floor, Mary said, “Do you really think us lot should be playing games in their drawing room?”

  “Who’s here to stop us?!” Mrs. Carruthers, tipsy on gin and port, gave a snort. “And besides, we have the young lady of the house with us, and she has invited us in, haven’t you, Anna?”

  At eight o’clock, after a raucous game of charades, everyone walked back down the staircase to the kitchen, feeling exhausted and content.

  Mrs. Carruthers turned to Mary. “Will you and Anna be staying here tonight?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” said Mary honestly.

  “Well now, why don’t you put her in her old room, then come downstairs and have a chat with me. I’ll make us a nice brew.”

  Mary agreed, and took a weary Anna upstairs to her old bedroom.

  “Oh! I’ve had such a lovely day, it’s been one of the b-best Christmases ever!” Anna sighed with pleasure as Mary tucked her in.

  “I’m glad you have, pet. ’Twas certainly better than I was expecting myself. Good night, sleep tight.”

  “Good night, Mary. Mary?”

  “Yes, pet?”

  “You and Nancy and Sam and Mrs. Carruthers . . . you’re my f-family, aren’t you?”

  “I’d like to think so, pet, I’d like to think so,” said Mary softly as she left the room.

  • • •

  “So now, what are we to do about the young miss upstairs, then?” asked Mrs. Carruthers as Mary settled herself at the kitchen table and sipped her tea.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Mary sighed.

  “Of course, what we should do is send a telegram to Mr. and Mrs. Lisle, saying that Anna has turned up here.”

  “Yes, we should,” agreed Mary. “But, well now, the thing is, I’ve made a promise to Anna that she never has to go back to that school. I’d have a worry that if we did take her back there, she’d only run away again.”

  “True,” agreed Mrs. Carruthers, “true. Maybe we could speak to the master, tell him how unhappy Anna is at the school, and see what ideas he has.”

  “And how will we get past the mistress?” Mary rolled her eyes.

  “You just have to hope to be lucky and speak to the master. Could you send him a telegram directly?”

  “Even if Mrs. Lisle didn’t intercept it, he’d talk to her about it. And she would say Anna must be returned to the school as soon as possible.”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what the solution is,” Mrs. Carruthers sighed. “That poor child has been abandoned by the very person who promised to protect her. And I can hardly bear to witness it.”

  “I know. And I mustn’t abandon her too.” Mary took another sip of tea and breathed slowly. “She’s told me stories of the bullying and the way the teachers all turned a blind eye. She says besides everyone knowing she’s an orphan, they’re after teasing her about her stammer. What can I do to help her?” Mary implored.

  “I don’t know tonight, dear, I really don’t. But I’m fond of Anna too, and the last thing I want to see is that poor little’un suffering. Tell you what, let’s have a night’s sleep, then put our heads together tomorrow morning and see what we can come up with.”

  “You know I’ll do anything to protect her, don’t you?” said Mary.

  “Yes, Mary,” said Mrs. Carruthers, “I do.”

  • • •

  Mary did not sleep that night. She paced around her bedroom, trying to decide the best course of action to safeguard Anna. She only wished she could spirit her away, but the child, whatever her own instincts and emotions told her, was not hers to take.

  Or was she . . . ?

  Mary was in the kitchen by six the following morning. A yawning Mrs. Carruthers joined her. They made a brew and sat back down at the table.

  “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “Thought you would have been, Mary. So have I, and I can’t say I’ve come up with much.”

  “Well now, maybe I have, but I need to ask you some details . . .”

  Forty minutes later, they were on their third cup of tea.

  Mrs. Carruthers, her palms clammy with tension, sighed. “I understand what you’re suggesting, Mary, but you know it’s a long shot, don’t you, girl? And a criminal offense, I’d warrant. You might get yerself locked up if it goes wrong.”

  “I know, Mrs. C, but it’s the only way I can think of to protect Anna. And I’d be having to trust you to never say a word that you knew.”

  “You know you can count on me, dear. I’m as fond of the little love as you are.”

  “One more question: when the master first brought Anna home, did he ever say anything about her birth certificate?”

  “No. It was never mentioned,” said Mrs. Carruthers.

  “Was there anything he brought with the baby to indicate who she was and where she’d come from?”

  “Well, remember I said at the time there was a small suitcase which Mr. Lisle brought with him? He said it was from the baby’s mother and he was to mind it until she came to collect her child.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Still up in the attic, I’d suppose. The mother never came to pick it up, now did she?” Mrs. Carruthers shrugged.

  “Do you think it would be wrong if I went to have a look to see if it was still there?” asked Mary.

  “Well, if it gives you any clues as to where Anna came from, I can’t see the wrong in it. Shall I ask Sam to go up to the attic and see if he can find it?”

  “If you would, Mrs. C. Now, in the meantime, as we discussed, I’ll be needing anything you can find that can show me Elizabeth Lisle’s handwriting and signature. And a piece of headed notepaper for me to write the letter on.”

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you, Mary? Rather you than me,” breathed Mrs. Carruthers. “I’ll go and get Mrs. Lisle’s precious accounts ledger. The one she took from me to fill in herself, because my bookkeeping was sloppy.”

  Later on that day, Mary left with Anna to return to her lodgings. When Anna had fallen asleep, Mary sat at her desk and practiced the letter she would write on pieces of scrap paper. She thanked God that she’d spent many a childhood hour copying out the scriptures to perfect her writing and spelling. Mary had also noted that the ledger confirmed next term’s fees had been paid to Anna’s school just before Mrs. Lisle had departed for Bangkok.

  Then, when she felt confident, Mary took the ink pen Mrs. Carruthers had handed her from Elizabeth Lisle’s desk and began to write.

  • • •

  Three days later, and now returned from holidays with her sister in Jersey, Doreen Grix, the headmistress of Anna’s school, sat down and began to sift through the post.

  Cadogan House,

  Cadogan Place,

  London, SW1

  26th December, 1928

  Dear Mrs. Grix,

  My departure to Bangkok was unfortunately delayed until after Christmas, following the death of a relative. And who should appear on my doorstep but my ward, Anna. Due to her obvious distress at being away from my husband and myself, the decision has been taken that Anna will accompany me to Bangkok and receive her education there. I understand that we will forfeit a term’s fees, but as the amount has already been paid, I will presume the matter is closed. Please address any correspondence to my London address, c/o Mrs. J. Carruthers, my housekeeper, who will forward it on to me in Bangkok.

  Yours sincerely,

  Elizabeth Lisle

  Doreen Grix did not feel pained by the loss of the girl. Anna Lisle had been a strange little thing who had not added to the school. And had to be catered for during the holidays.

  The headmistress filed the letter in her drawer and considered the matter closed.


  • • •

  A few days later, when all the servants had left to move on to their new employment, and only Mrs. Carruthers remained at the house, Mary left Anna with Sheila and returned to Cadogan House. She’d explained to the child that she was off down to Kent to see Anna’s headmistress and tell her she was not returning to school.

  Mary found Mrs. Carruthers upstairs, packing bedding into trunks.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye,” she said.

  Mrs. Carruthers wiped the sweat from her brow and pulled herself to her feet. “You’re going through with it, then?”

  Mary nodded. “Yes. I can’t see that I have any choice.”

  “No . . . as long as you’re aware of the risks you’re going to be taking. Does Anna know she’ll never be able to come back to Cadogan House?”

  “No, she doesn’t.” Mary sighed in agitation. “Do you think I’m doing wrong?”

  “Mary, sometimes in life we have to follow our heart. And . . . all I can say is that, when I was younger, I wish I’d have followed mine.” Mrs. Carruthers stared out of the window, her face contorted with the sudden pain of memory. “I once had a gentleman, you know, and a babe of my own. The gentleman vanished, I had to work, so I gave it up for adoption. I still regret that decision every day of my life.”

  “Oh, Mrs. C, I’m very sorry. I had no idea . . .”

  “No. Well, you wouldn’t, being as I never told you,” she answered briskly. “But I can see that your love for Anna is like that of a proper mum. And in my opinion, what you’re doing is in her best interests. But not necessarily in yours. If you get found out . . .”

  Mary nodded stoically. “I know.”

  “You know I’ll never give you away, don’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But you must understand that once you’ve done what you’re suggesting, we can’t see each other again. I’d be seen as an accomplice in the stealing of a child, and I’m not keen to spend my last years in Holloway Prison.”

  “Yes,” said Mary, “I understand. Thank you.” Mary instinctively threw her arms around Mrs. Carruthers.

  “Don’t go thanking me. I’ll well up, I will. You’d better be getting off now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck,” called Mrs. Carruthers as Mary reached the door.

  Mary nodded and left the house, wondering why her life had been punctuated by a series of painful and final good-byes.

  Mrs. Carruthers walked back inside to make herself a fresh brew, and it was only then she noticed the small leather suitcase sitting in the lobby by the back door. She went outside, but saw the mews was empty and Mary had gone. “Ah well, too late now,” she said to herself, and picked up the suitcase to take it back upstairs to the attic.

  • • •

  Mary arrived at Tunbridge Wells station two hours later. Stepping off the train, she asked for directions to the nearest post office. Walking the short distance toward it, she entered and stood patiently in the queue, trying to stem the beating of her heart. When it was her turn, she approached the counter and spoke to the young girl behind it in her best English accent.

  “I wish to send a telegram to Bangkok. Here is the address, and here are the words.”

  “Very well, miss,” replied the girl, surveying her chart. “To Bangkok, that will be six shillings and sixpence.”

  “Thank you.” Mary counted out the money required and passed it across the counter. “May I ask when it will be received?”

  “By the latest, tonight. We send all the telegrams at the close of business.”

  “And when can I expect a reply?”

  The girl looked at her oddly. “Whenever the recipient wishes to send one. Come in tomorrow afternoon. We may have something for you by then.”

  Mary nodded. “Thank you.”

  She spent the night in a small bed-and-breakfast in the center of the town. She did not venture out of her room to eat, partly because she had no appetite, but also it was important that as few people as possible saw her. She passed the long hours pondering her actions, wondering if she was clear in the head for what she had done.

  On paper, she was killing the child she loved. Or, at least, her chances of a future under the umbrella of a wealthy family.

  But instinct told her that Anna’s hopes of being embraced by either the guardian who had promised to protect her, or the woman he’d married who resented her, were small. Besides, it was five years before they would return. Five years in which, if she didn’t act, Anna would spend the rest of her childhood lonely and abandoned in a place she hated. And whatever it took, and whatever she must sacrifice if she was caught, it had to be worth the risk. In fact, as Mary approached the post office the following morning, her heart drumming in her chest, she knew that her entire plan depended completely on her belief that Anna’s sudden removal from the Lisles’ lives would be a relief, rather than a curse.

  • • •

  Elizabeth Lisle walked into her husband’s office holding the telegram. Before she’d entered, she’d set her face into an appropriate expression of shock and grief.

  “Darling, I”—she moved toward him—“I’m afraid there’s been some very sad news.”

  Lawrence Lisle, exhausted from another night of relentless Bangkok heat, took the telegram Elizabeth offered him. He read it in silence then placed his head in his hands.

  “I know, my dear, I know.” Elizabeth put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “How terribly tragic.”

  “My Anna . . . my poor little girl . . .” Tears came to his eyes as grief and guilt assailed him. “I must, of course, return immediately. The funeral arrangements . . .”

  Elizabeth held him silently as he wept.

  “I failed her, Elizabeth. I promised her mother I would take care of her. I was wrong to have left her behind in England—she should have come here with us.”

  “My dear, it’s always been obvious to me that Anna was fragile. She was so pale and thin, with that terrible stammer. It is indeed unfortunate that there was a bout of influenza at the school, and she was not strong enough to fight it. But it is very likely, given her frail health, that she may well have contracted one of the many tropical diseases here if she had accompanied us.”

  “But at least she would have been with those who loved her. Not alone in some godforsaken school,” Lawrence moaned.

  “Lawrence, I can assure you I would not have trusted your ward to any establishment I did not feel could offer Anna the very best of care,” Elizabeth reprimanded him. “As it says in the telegram, the headmistress was terribly fond of Anna.”

  “Darling, my apologies,” Lawrence said hastily. “I was not trying to suggest you were at fault. No.” He shook his head. “It is I that am at fault. And now Anna is dead . . . I can hardly bear it. I must sail for England as soon as possible. The very least I can do is organize and attend the funeral. Be there for her in death, when I failed her in life.”

  “Really, my dear, you must not punish yourself. You did what so many others would not have done. You took her away from harm, gave her a home and love and kindness, and treated her like your own for ten years.” Elizabeth knelt beside his chair and took his hands in hers. “Lawrence, you must know that it is impossible for you to attend Anna’s funeral. Such things cannot wait for the six weeks it would take you to return to England. Anna deserves her soul to be laid to rest as soon as possible in a Christian burial. The headmistress is offering to make the arrangements for us. And for Anna’s sake, we must accept her help.”

  Eventually, Lawrence nodded. “You are, of course, right,” he agreed sadly.

  “I will reply to the telegram for you,” Elizabeth said gently. “Perhaps, if you could consider where you feel would be appropriate for Anna to be buried, I can inform the headmistress. She mentions a local church she feels would be suitable. Unless you have any other suggestions.”

  Lawrence looked out of the window of the Consulate and sighed. “I don’t even know what faith
Anna was. I never thought to ask at the time. There were so many things I failed to ask . . . so, yes, whatever the headmistress suggests,” he replied numbly.

  “Then I will reply immediately, thank her for her kindness and ask her to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “And, Lawrence, there is something I must tell you.” Elizabeth paused, inwardly making a decision. “I was going to wait a little longer, but perhaps, under the circumstances, it might help.” She stood up. “My dear, we are to have a child of our own in seven months’ time.”

  Lawrence stared at his wife, trying to switch his emotions from grief to joy. He had dearly wished for this. “Why, that is the most wonderful news! Are you sure?”

  “I am sure.”

  He rose and put his arms around her. “Forgive me, I am overwhelmed. It is almost too much to take in.”

  “I understand. But I thought, my dear, that it might lessen the blow of this dreadful news.”

  “Yes, yes . . .” Lawrence murmured as he stroked his wife’s hair. “And perhaps, if it is a girl, we might call her ‘Anna,’ after the child we have just lost.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Elizabeth gave a tight smile. “If that is what you would like.”

  • • •

  Mary took the telegram from the girl behind the counter. Her hands were trembling as she walked outside and sat down on the nearest bench to read it. Everything depended on this reply.

  DEAR MRS. GRIX (STOP) IT IS WITH TERRIBLE SADNESS WE LEARNED OF ANNA’S PREMATURE DEATH (STOP) AS IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR EITHER OF US TO RETURN HOME WE ARE MOST GRATEFUL FOR YOUR HELP IN ARRANGING THE FUNERAL (STOP) WE WILL BOW TO YOUR SUGGESTIONS AND PLEASE INFORM US OF THE COSTS (STOP) WE THANK YOU FOR YOUR KINDNESS AND CONSIDERATION TOWARD ANNA (STOP) ELIZABETH LISLE (STOP)

  Mary let out a small yelp of relief. Even though it had been doubtful that Lawrence and Elizabeth Lisle would decide to board a ship bound for England forthwith, it had always remained a possibility. Mary took out her pencil and drafted a reply on the back of the telegram. There were a few loose ends that were vital to tie up. As she knew from the Sherlock Holmes books she had always loved, it was the attention to detail in circumstances like these that was important. Ten minutes later, she walked back to the post office and gave the girl behind the counter her response.