Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery

by Florrie Palmer

  For a moment, Mike felt the old warmth he used to feel when he thought about her and he was glad she had at last made a proper friend.

  He watched her. She seemed to have a little spring in her step as she started bustling about writing lists for Christmas Day and what they would need to take. We should have gone up there before, he thought, and felt a real sense of failure as a partner. He had not been looking after her. He had only thought of himself and his own grief, not of her and hers. Poor little Bette, he thought, I really will make more effort to put her first and help her get some enjoyment back.

  He started thinking about the drive there. It was a good five and a half hours and they must allow a lunch stop where Brynn could have a pee and they could grab something to eat and drink.

  By the end of that day, both Bette and Mike felt lighter than they had for a long time.

  Bette called Mrs Edwards and asked her to pop into Cliff Edge on the morning of the twenty-third to get the wood burner going, turn the heating up and generally tidy the place and make up the beds.

  15

  23–24 December 2017. Cliff Edge

  Sara had a satnav and had been invited to arrive on Christmas Eve. Mike and Bette wanted a night there alone to get the house heated up and some shopping in before their guest arrived.

  It was little short of 300 miles to Cliff Edge from Cambridge and Bette and Mike left soon after 9 o’clock in the morning, intending to go via Bristol and the Severn Bridge.

  Because Mike was silent on the journey, Bette presumed he was in a huff and was wishing he hadn’t agreed to the idea. He could sulk like a child when things didn’t go his way. She usually dealt with it by giving him the silent treatment in return. In the game of silence, she could easily outlast him and it would always be him to apologise just to get her to talk to him again. She had once kept it up for ten days.

  In the car, Bette turned on the stereo and switched from Mike’s jazz-and-blues playlist to a radio station playing relentless Christmas pop songs. She sang along loudly and slightly out of tune to Mariah Carey, Slade and others until Mike could bear it no more. He was certain she had done it deliberately to annoy. Silently, he altered the stereo back to his beloved jazz.

  An angry glare from Bette accompanied words spat rather than spoken. ‘Eat your heart out, Scrooge,’ she addressed the air. ‘This year Michael Hanson takes the crown. Enjoyment’s a thing he refuses to try and understand and since I gave up trying to enjoy him years ago, this Christmas I fully intend to enjoy me, moi, my little old self. He will not get me down this Christmas, of that he can be certain.’

  Mike fiddled with the settings until he found the station she had been listening to. He couldn’t face the rest of the drive in a bitter atmosphere and took the line of least resistance.

  Without a word, Bette joined in the chorus of another Christmas song and no more was said about it.

  They made better progress than expected and it was about ten minutes before two when they stopped near the Severn for a bite in the pub and to let the dog stretch his legs. They were glad they’d brought their padded coats and thermal underwear as it was forecast to be a cold Christmas. It wasn’t so bad in the valleys, but up on the hills and beside the coast, it could be a different story. A high wind was getting up. It was certainly going to freeze that evening. Cliff Edge would be warm, though, as they’d asked Mrs Edwards to leave it on a time switch since the beginning of November when four people had visited it. They’d learned that lesson last Christmas, when Bette had been eight months pregnant. The place had been freezing when they arrived and had taken quite a while to warm up.

  They branched off the motorway to stop at a pub in the countryside for a late lunch and to allow Brynn to have a run and a pee. Mike ordered a lager and a lamb steak and she her beloved curry, rice and chips. The mood was brightening up and Mike was speaking again.

  She was hardly listening. It wasn’t as though she cared whether he spoke or not. He leant across the table and for the first time in ages, fixed her with that intense look of his. ‘I know I’ve been a total grump since… well, you know… and I’m very sorry and I’m going to try to look on the brighter side starting now and in the new year.’

  ‘Don’t bother about it,’ said Bette.

  ‘I’ve been wondering. What would you say to trying again?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At having a baby.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ Bette was crying. ‘I cannot believe my ears. How can you even suggest such a thing? It would be like trying to stick the most useless little plaster over a huge wound. The answer is no!’ Her voice was high and loud and people at other tables stopped eating and turned to look at her.

  He sank back into his seat. Her words chastised and hurt deeply but then he told himself, he had tried the idea too soon. In fact, it was still raw and probably was too soon. Perhaps if he could get back his old positivity… He would wait until next year then work on her again. He apologised for distressing her but inside, his anger was rising against her and against himself for not standing up to her, for not making her see that another baby was the answer.

  This contained resentment had been with him ever since Lucy’s death and showed no signs of dissipating. In fact, for every day that went by, it quietly grew.

  Before reaching Cliff Edge, they stopped again in Newport to grab milk, butter and bread for breakfast the next day. On a whim, Bette bought a Christmas tree so large that they had to strap it to the roof. This irritated Mike hugely who tried to stop her and said it was ridiculous to buy one now as it could have waited till tomorrow when they did the big shop. But Bette got furious and stamped her foot and yelled at him in front of the guy who was helping carry the tree to the car. Once they had managed to secure the thing to the car, Mike could barely see out to drive the rest of the way and angrily steered slowly along toward the cliff road to their house. A pall of mashed-up feelings hung in the air between them but both of them knew Bette had got her way – for now.

  She had bought an expensive frozen fish pie and some broccoli for supper and so they were set up until the following morning when they’d go shopping. They kept a large plastic box with larder products such as coffee, tea, salt, and sugar in the garden shed so they didn’t need to keep replacing them every time they went. They also kept a case of wine and a crate of beer in there. The locals were all honest, good people and they weren’t worried that anyone would steal anything. Besides, it was widely known that the house was rented out.

  They drove down the quarter-mile track to Cliff Edge and parked the car. It felt strange to be back at a place where they had shared happiness. As they got out of the car, Bette wished she hadn’t suggested coming here for Christmas.

  First of all, they had to drag the cumbersome Christmas tree off the roof rack. Then they took their luggage into the house. The place was immaculate. Mrs Edwards had clearly been in, got the heating going, lit the wood burner and stacked a few logs ready. Bette fed Brynn then sent the disgruntled Mike out to the shed to fetch the box with their provisions and the Christmas tree holder (she’d put it away in there last year). When he returned, Bette positioned the holder and then they went to stagger into the house with the tree which dropped pine needles all over the clean floor.

  Mike, who just wanted to sit down and have a glass of wine and something to eat, was becoming more irritated by the second. Once the tree was up, Bette put the fish pie in the oven and poured both of them a glass of wine. They sat by the wood burner but talk stuck in their mouths. Then she remembered. Sara was coming tomorrow. That should make things a lot more fun.

  That evening while they barely spoke, Bette decorated the tree with baubles and tinsel. In spite of the atmosphere, she was beginning to really look forward to Christmas.

  The following morning at first light Bette slipped out and cut some Christmas greenery. Later, before they set off for the market in Fishguard, Mike took Brynn for a short run, and Bette made a centrepiece
of holly and ivy for the table.

  While she was busy at this a loud thud echoed through the house. The heavy, old iron door knocker Mike had found in an antique shop could make a big noise. Bette answered the door to find the tiny, kind-faced Mrs Edwards smiling cheerily with a bag in her hand. ‘I’ve bought you a little something to wish you a very merry Christmas. Nice to have you back.’

  Bette gushed over her home-made teacakes and laverbread. In return, she told her she had put a hundred pounds bonus into her account that day. Showing gratitude was not a thing Mrs Edwards had been brought up to do. The nearest thing to it that she could manage was to say, ‘That’ll come in nice and handy.’

  Her husband had drowned when his trawler had sunk in Carmarthen Bay some ten years before and Mrs Edwards had been left to bring up her only child. He was now grown and lived in Swansea so she didn’t see him much. Along with making and selling Welsh teacakes and collecting seaweed to cook for hours to make the laverbread that she also sold, the spasmodic work at Cliff Edge helped her manage.

  She was about to leave when Mike reappeared and, always the gentleman, insisted on driving her back to her cottage. It was only a couple of miles but in the cold weather and with the icy roads, Mrs Edwards, who had bicycled up to Cliff Edge, demurred with little show of resistance. While Mike lifted and secured her bike onto his roof rack, she said she was going to her son’s the following day for Christmas and the new year but that she’d be back on the 2nd January and would come up to give the place a good clean that afternoon.

  Mike and Bette now drove to the market in Fishguard where they stocked up with all kinds of delicious food including pre-ordered beef, ham, crab, lobsters, cheeses, and cakes.

  By the afternoon, the burner crackling, mince pies cooking in the oven, Mike went out again to take Brynn out for half an hour before darkness started to fall. Five minutes after he left, a car sounded outside. Bette ran out to greet Sara. She got out of the car and let Gin out of the boot. The women hugged one another.

  Sara’s delight in the place was immediately obvious. ‘Oh my God, Bette, what an amazing building and in such a stunning setting.’ They watched Gin run around sniffing Brynn’s trail, her carefully-groomed tricolour coat blowing wild in the wind.

  Sara removed Gin’s fleece bed and her case from the car.

  ‘Oh Bette, this place is just wonderful. This is going to be my best Christmas ever. But where’s the gorgeous Brynn?’

  ‘Mike and Brynn are walking. They won’t be long then the dogs can go crazy together. It’s so remote here, we just leave Brynn to his own devices a lot of the time. Put those cases down now. I want to quickly show you the outside.’

  Sara dropped the case and fleece as bidden while Bette took her round the garden, pointing out the cliffs and the rough sea beyond. ‘You’re probably dying for the toilet and a cup of tea though not necessarily in that order, but I just had to show you the landscape.’

  They went inside and Sara swooned with over-the-top pleasure and straightaway wanted to explore. ‘Oh Bette, it’s more wonderful than I can believe. What a place! And you’ve done it so beautifully. It’s quite awe-inspiring. The people who lived here long ago would applaud how you have rescued and turned it into such a beautiful home. But you were right about the toilet. Badly needed.’

  Bette showed her the cloakroom while she made a pot of tea. When Sara came back into the kitchen, Bette said, ‘Not bad, is it? Blowy at this time of year but that’s what you get so close to the sea. It makes up for it in the summer: there’s wonderful watching – boats, seabirds, seals, dolphins, porpoises and sometimes we get basking sharks.’ She picked up Sara’s tatty case. ‘I’ll show you your bedroom.’

  ‘Don’t you dare– I mean, don’t take my case.’ Her usual ingratiating self.

  Bette took the case anyway while Sara carried the dog bed.

  ‘Where should Gin sleep?’

  ‘Wherever you like, it really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, er, if it’s okay she is used to sleeping on the floor beside my bed. She feels more relaxed when she’s with me. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Of course, no problem. Brynn actually sneaks in with me when Mike’s away but he’s such a clean-freak he doesn’t like the idea of a dog in the bedroom. Silly man.’

  So he was called Mike. The name was not spoken with love but at least the man had one.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure most people don’t. But thank you, as long as you’re sure it won’t annoy Mike?’

  ‘I’ll deal with him if it does,’ Bette said quickly. ‘He shouldn’t be long, I told him to be back by 4pm.’

  Surprised at the vehemence with which she spoke of her partner, Sara thought Bette must be in a mood. She had previously witnessed how it could change. Fortunately, this seldom lasted and Bette, who was by and large a happy person, forgot any ill temper quickly.

  They climbed the iron staircase and walked along the gallery to the pale-blue bedroom with which Sara was delighted. Through one of the original windows, a view of wintery grass fields stretched to the coastal path along the cliffs, beyond which a grey, choppy sea frothed and crashed against the rockface.

  ‘What they call bracing weather,’ said Bette. ‘The forecast says there’s snow on the way next week.’

  ‘Quite a change from Cambridge. It’s not so cold down there.’ Sara hugged her. ‘Oh Bette, I am so happy to be here.’

  What Bette would term sycophantic most would say was exaggerated politeness.

  ‘And we are so pleased you’ve come. You get yourself unpacked and settled then join us downstairs. Mike is dying to meet you.’

  At about quarter past four in the afternoon, Bette was standing reading a cookery book in the kitchen area and Mike was sitting on the big sofa, reading the newspaper. Sara came down the iron staircase, a happy grin on her face. As she reached the penultimate step from the floor, she stopped dead. For a few moments, she looked as though she might be going to faint. Bette, who hadn’t noticed, called to Mike, ‘Sara’s here. Come and say hello.’

  Mike glanced up. He hesitated before leaving his chair and on his way across the room paused to put a couple of logs in the wood burner before walking toward Sara. He shook her hand. ‘Hello. Glad you made it.’

  Sara stammered a greeting then murmured that she had forgotten something and would they excuse her, please.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Bette stared at her.

  Sara looked as though she was about to burst into tears. ‘No, no, I mean, yes, no, everything’s fine. I’m– I’m just a bit exhausted after the journey. Would you mind terribly if I had a lie down in my bedroom? I’ve got one of my migraines coming on and am not feeling very well.’

  ‘Has something happened, Sara? Tell me.’

  ‘No, no, I just… I just… I’m getting one of my migraines. I’m so sorry, I must go to bed.’ She ran back up the stairs.

  Bette looked at Mike. ‘Whatever do you think is wrong with her?’

  ‘No idea.’ Mike took a mince pie and bit into it.

  ‘S’posed to have cream with it, you dimp.’

  He appeared not to hear her as he returned to his paper.

  Bette fished around in the fridge, found some root ginger, chopped a chunk up into tiny pieces and took it upstairs to find Sara sitting on the bed holding her head in her hands and crying.

  ‘Oh Sara, I’m worried about you. Whatever’s troubling you, you can tell me, you know. We’ve shared our deepest secrets already. Tell me what it is. Is it something about this place?’

  ‘No, of course not. No really, it’s this awful head. I actually felt it coming on as I was arriving. I’ve told you about them before. I do get these attacks, you know. The long drive probably brought it on. I just need to sleep. I’ll hopefully be fine by the morning.’ Her eyes were still watery and she was pale.

  ‘Poor you. I’ve brought some ibuprofen, water and chopped-up ginger to put on your forehead. You probably already know it’s a brilliant recipe for getting ri
d of headaches. Now then, you get undressed, get into bed and I’ll do it for you.’ She put the glass of water on the bedside table. Sara got up to move toward her still-unpacked suitcase. Bette was being wonderful. Like the best nurse.

  ‘Hey, I’ll do that for you. You stay there.’

  Before Sara could stop her, Bette had unzipped her suitcase and was going through her things. ‘Ah, there we are, what a pretty pair of PJs and warm too. Just what’s needed in this weather.’ She held up the faded mauve pyjamas that had clearly seen better days before handing them to Sara who blushed and tried to put them on without exposing her body to Bette.

  ‘Oh, don’t be concerned on my behalf, lovely, I’ve seen it all.’

  As Sara got into bed, Bette handed her two tablets and the glass. Once she had swallowed them and was lying under the duvet, Bette scattered the tiny pieces of ginger on her forehead. After a short time, Sara began to feel the heat from the root.

  ‘Leave it on until it gets too hot to bear.’ Bette crossed to the door. ‘I’ll pop up later to see if you’d like some soup or something easy for a light supper. We have to have you better for Christmas, you know.’

  She blew a kiss to Sara. ‘Rest and get better, darling. I’ll pop up later.’

  At around 8pm, Bette crept upstairs as quietly as possible and peeped into Sara’s room. Gin was lying at the bottom of the bed and Sara sitting up with her knees bent up under the bedclothes, her laptop balanced on them. She snapped the machine shut.