The House on the Cliff

by Charlotte Williams

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Solveig looked straight into my eyes. I looked back, into the piercing blue, and thought of the sea and sky and Elsa drowning somewhere between them, cold and alone, without her mother to comfort her. “I am. I didn’t trust him an inch.” She paused. “To tell you the truth, he tried to flirt with me. As if he thought he could distract me from investigating my daughter’s death. In front of his wife, as well. I found it disgusting.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “So what happened in the end?”

  “I couldn’t get anywhere. I stayed on for a while, saw to all the arrangements, had Elsa’s body flown home. Put up a plaque at the spot where she died. Andreas didn’t come over to help, couldn’t cope with it. Then I went back to Stockholm. Got through the funeral, somehow. Tried to forget. Lost my husband. Began a new career. Carried on. As people do.” Solveig finished her meal and pushed her plate away. “Dessert?”

  “No, thanks.” I’d been enjoying my meal, but my appetite had suddenly vanished. “Shall we just have some coffees?”

  Solveig nodded, waved the waiter over and ordered the coffees. Then she opened her bag and took something out.

  “Would you like to see a picture of her?”

  For a moment I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I realized that she was holding a photograph of Elsa.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Solveig handed over the photo. It was in color, rather battered at the edges. The girl was fair-haired, with long, slim arms and legs, like her mother. The same elegant, Nordic bone structure. She was wearing a sky-blue sweater, and she was laughing hard.

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she? She looks like you.” I started, realizing I’d spoken in the present tense, as though she was still alive.

  I handed the photo back. As I did, my eyes filled with tears. I thought of my own children and imagined how terrible it must have been—must still be—for Solveig to bear the loss of her daughter at such a young age, with her whole life still ahead of her. And I felt a shiver of fear when I thought of Nella and what might be happening at home with Emyr and Jazz Quest, and the manager, producer, or whoever he was. I’d given Bob strict instructions not to let her make any decisions about the audition while I was away, but of late I’d begun to realize that she was reaching a stage where she might well decide to take matters into her own hands.

  Solveig leaned toward me and put her hand on my arm once again. This time, her grip was firmer.

  “Help me find out what happened, Jessica. Please. I need to know. I’ve done everything I can. You live over there. You could help me.”

  “Well, I’ll try. But I’m not a detective.”

  “I know, but I’m sure you realize there’s something wrong here. That’s why you’ve come to see me.”

  I didn’t deny it.

  “I knew someone would come one day,” she went on, letting go of my arm. “These things never stay hidden forever.”

  For a second, three images passed before my eyes. I thought of Gwydion lying in his bed, his face to the wall. Of Arianrhod in a cloud of blue smoke, twisting her fingers in her sleeve. Of Evan Morgan, standing on the driveway of the mansion, frustrated and angry.

  “Look,” I said. “I think you may be right. It’s possible you haven’t been told the whole truth about what happened.”

  I wondered for a moment what on earth I was getting myself into. I made sure not to mention what I already knew of the family—patient confidentiality and all that. But I also thought it wise not to get her hopes up at this stage. I wasn’t convinced there had been foul play, if that was what Solveig was getting at. So I chose my words carefully.

  “If you like, I’ll try to find out a bit more. But I warn you, I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thank you.” Solveig spoke lightly, but I could hear the intensity in her tone.

  The waiter brought over the coffees. While we drank them we went back to making pleasantries. Then, after a while, she looked at her watch and said she had to go.

  When she got up to leave, she shook my hand. Then, impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Good-bye,” she said. “And good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I put my hand on her arm for a moment. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Mind you do.”

  She gave me a last smile. A cheerful, encouraging smile. Then she picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and left.

  9

  Bob came to the airport to collect me. He was in a buoyant mood, evidently expecting an immediate rapprochement between us. He hugged me tightly when I saw him, took my suitcase, and put his arm around me as we walked to the car. As we drove home, he told me that all had gone well with the girls over the weekend: he’d taken Rose out and about with him on Saturday, and on Sunday he’d invited his mother over for lunch. Nella had helped him cook the meal. They’d had a chance to talk, and she’d told him that there was nothing to worry about. Emyr was just trying to help her get her singing career off the ground, she’d said. She was practicing for the audition, and she’d let us know when it came up. In the evening, Bob said, he and the girls had watched a film on TV. Rose had snuggled up to him on the sofa, and Nella had leaned against him and put her head on his shoulder, the way she’d used to do when she was little.

  “That’s nice,” I said. My anger toward him was thawing a little since my brief adventure in Stockholm. “Maybe I should go away more often.”

  Bob laughed, but he shot me a nervous glance.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “I don’t know.” I thought about it. I did feel calmer. The break had done me good, helped me to move on from my feeling of helpless resentment toward him. “I think so.”

  “Good.” He leaned over and patted my knee. “Now, tell me all about Stockholm.”

  I told him about the city: the blue skies; the glittering islands in the sea; the pretty little hotel by the water’s edge; the cobbled streets of the Gamla Stan; the restaurant in the tower with the panoramic views; the grandiose wooden warship in the Vasamuseet, which I’d visited after my lunch there. Built in the seventeenth century by King Gustavus Adolphus, it had so many gun decks perched on its narrow keel that it toppled over and sank on its first outing. The ambitiousness, and foolishness, of the endeavor had made a strong impression on me. The way that nobody—architects, shipbuilders, naval strategists, political advisers—had dared to tell the king that the ship wouldn’t stay up in the water, even in port. The way that armies of sailors were employed to run up and down the decks when he visited, to make it look as if it could keep steady.

  “You’d like Sweden.” I paused. “Maybe we could go together some time.”

  I didn’t mention that everything there was fiendishly expensive. That had been a shock to the system, not to mention the bank balance. And I didn’t mention who I’d had lunch with at the Vasamuseet, either.

  When we got home, Rose bounded up to greet me, glad to have me back. Nella was, too, I could tell, although she pretended at first not to have registered my absence. They both loved the mittens, and Bob was gracious enough about the aquavit, opening it and pouring us an aperitif. The house was tidy, and Bob had cooked a casserole for supper. Nella had made a salad, and Rose had iced some fairy cakes for afters, as she called it. We ate together, and I felt more relaxed than I had done in a long time. Looking around the cozily lit kitchen, it seemed impossible that anything, anything at all, could destroy this little unit: Bob, me, and the girls. But that night, when we went to bed and Bob tried to make love to me, the translator came back again.

  She was wearing her headset and her tiny dress. Bob was in his suit, his specs perched on the end of his nose, looking serious. He was sitting at a desk, with his name on a little sign in front of it. The translator was smiling at him. He was smiling at her. Every time he spoke, she repeated his words. He liked hearing her voice, shaping the outline of his sentences in her language. She
liked fashioning them for him, presenting to all the people listening, polished and buffed. Then the scene changed and I saw a bed, a hotel bed like the one I’d slept in during my stay, only this one was wider, and grander, and in it were Bob and the translator, and the headset had come off, and the tiny dress . . .

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m not quite ready yet.”

  In the days that followed I somehow didn’t find time to tell Bob about my meeting with Solveig Lindberg in Stockholm. There was a lot to do on my return, catching up with work, getting the household running again, ferrying the girls here and there. But the real reason I kept silent was that I hadn’t decided what my next step should be. Of course, keeping the meeting secret was a small matter, or at least that’s what I told myself at the time. But even so, it weighed on me, because up to that point I hadn’t, on the whole, kept secrets from him—even insignificant ones.

  Nella seemed in a cheerful mood. At night we heard the Billie Holiday song coming from her room, and her voice, singing along with it. She was evidently practicing hard for Jazz Quest. Then, one evening toward the end of the week, after I’d got home from work, she appeared in the kitchen dressed in a tight, short skirt and a skimpy T-shirt, her face plastered with makeup.

  “Mum, I need a lift. Over to Fairwater.”

  “Now?” I glanced at my watch. It was already six o’clock.

  “Yes.”

  “But what about supper?” I said. “And homework?”

  “I’ll get something to eat over there. And I’ve done my homework.”

  “OK, then.” I could see no reason why she shouldn’t go out for a couple of hours. “Where shall I drop you off?”

  “At my friend’s.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Tamsin.”

  “Who’s she? I’ve never heard of her before.”

  Nella sighed. “Mum, I’ve got a lot of friends, you know.” She spoke slowly, as if talking to a halfwit.

  I nodded. “How will you get back?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  I thought for a moment of giving her my time-worn lecture about not being a taxi service, but decided not to bother.

  “All right,” I said. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

  We went into the hall. She picked up her bag and stood by the door while I put my coat on. Nella watched me, but she didn’t get her own jacket.

  “You’re not going out like that, are you?” I said. “You’ll freeze to death.”

  Sometimes, when I talk to my elder daughter, I seem unable to express myself without coming out with every cliché in the book. I could have said, “Can I pass you your jacket?” or something like that. But instead I always seem to parrot the same old hackneyed lines. I wish I could stop myself, but I don’t seem to be able to. Perhaps it’s some ancient mothering—or smothering—instinct, wired into the DNA.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to borrow a cardigan?” I continued, as we went outside, got into the car, and drove off. “I think there’s one in the back.”

  Nella ignored my remark. Instead, she flipped down the visor above her head and began to inspect her face in the mirror, even though it was dark and she could hardly see.

  “You could put it in your bag. Just in case.”

  “In case of what, Mother?” Nella always calls me “Mother” when she’s annoyed with me. “I’m getting out of the car and going into someone’s house. Then I’m going out of someone’s house and getting into the car. What do you expect to happen on the way? A biblical flood? A hurricane? And if it did, how would the cardigan help?”

  I nodded, duly admonished. Nella was right, in a way. And I was right, too. I could see her point, but she wasn’t going to be able to see mine, not for a long time yet. So it was useless to pursue the issue.

  We drove along in silence. I thought about mentioning the fact that her eye makeup was a little heavy, but decided against it. When we got to Fairwater she flipped the visor back into position, registered where we were, and directed me into a quiet, well-lit modern estate with neat lawns in front of each detached house.

  “Park here,” she said. “And turn round.”

  “Which house is it?”

  “Oh, one of those.” She waved an airy hand.

  “What time do you want picking up?”

  “I said. I’ll call you.”

  “Mind you do. Before eleven, please.” I leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.

  She got out of the car and shut the door. I could see she was waiting until I drove off before going up to the house, so I turned the car round and headed slowly back down the road. As I did, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her walk up the pathway to one of the houses. When she got to the door, it opened. A figure was framed in it, illuminated by the light in the hallway. The figure of a man with curly, reddish hair. I squinted into the mirror, trying to see who it was, and then I recognized him: Emyr Griffiths.

  I started as the car tire bumped the side of the road. By the time I’d steered the car back onto the road and turned the corner, the house, and the figure in the doorway, were lost to view.

  As soon as I could, I parked the car on the roadside, fumbled in my bag for my mobile and called Nella. Her phone rang, but she didn’t answer it. I tried again, but she still didn’t pick up, so I texted her, telling her to phone me immediately. Then I sat waiting for a reply, getting angrier and angrier. Nella had lied to me. She’d told me she was going to see a girlfriend, but she wasn’t, she was visiting Emyr at his house. . . . If she didn’t call, I decided, I’d go back, knock on the door, and demand to know what was going on.

  The mobile rang.

  “What is it?” Nella picked up. She sounded irritated.

  “Look,” I said, “you told me you were going to see your friend Tamsin. But you’re in that house with Emyr Griffiths. . . .” I stopped, realizing that my voice was rising.

  “So? Tamsin’s here, too. We’re talking to Emyr about our recording session.” There was a pause as Nella walked away from whoever it was that was listening to the conversation and lowered her voice to a whisper. “And you can stop spying on me.”

  “I’m not spying on you. I’m just trying to make sure—”

  “Listen, Mum, I’m fine,” she cut in. “Calm down.” She spoke as if reassuring a lunatic. “Don’t call me again.”

  “OK. But whose house is it?”

  “It’s Emyr’s house.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Well, I’m meeting Tamsin here—at the studio. It’s in the house.”

  “Fair enough. But you should have explained.” I paused. “Don’t stay out too late. When will you be back?”

  “I’ll keep you informed.” With that, Nella switched off her phone.

  I drove home feeling angry, wondering whether I’d overreacted. Nella hadn’t exactly lied to me, but she hadn’t told the truth either. When I got home I busied myself helping Rose with her homework and, after she’d gone to bed, sat watching TV, my mobile in my hand. It didn’t ring, but at precisely five to eleven Nella let herself into the house. As she came in through the front door, I heard a car drive off down the lane.

  “Oh, so you got a lift,” I said, coming into the hall.

  Nella nodded, hung up her coat, and headed down to the kitchen. I followed her.

  “I’m sorry I panicked,” I said, as she cut herself a slice of bread and began to spread it with peanut butter. “But I just wish you’d explain what you’re doing, that’s all. I worry about you. Emyr . . .” I stopped, then started again. “Well, we don’t know him very well, do we?”

  Nella waved the knife impatiently. “I don’t want to go into this right now, Mum. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  I didn’t respond. It was clear that discussing the issue further would only lead to an argument. So I decided to go up to bed.

  “Turn out the lights when you go up, won’t you,” I said. “Dad’s away in London tonight.” Then I added, as I walke
d down the hallway, “And remember, Nella. I don’t like being lied to. Don’t do it again, please.”

  The next day I was too busy to dwell at any length on my altercation with Nella. I had two clients to see that morning and after that Gwydion was coming in, after missing last week’s session. I wondered what kind of mood he’d be in.

  At eleven o’clock precisely there was a knock on my door and he walked in. He was wearing a hooded top, jeans, and his strappy running shoes. He looked relaxed and confident.

  “Welcome back,” I said as he sat down in the chair opposite.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “So? How did it go?”

  “Fine. Very good, actually. The director and I just seemed to click. He’s very sharp, very intuitive. We worked on the script, made some changes.” He smiled. “I’ve never really worked with the top people before. This is a new level for me.”

  “Well, that’s great.” I paused. “No sleeping problems, then?”

  “No.” There was a note of excitement in his voice. “The thing is, Jessica, since I last saw you, everything’s changed. You see, I’ve got to the end of the dream.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know what happens now.” He paused. “Can you remember where we were with it?”

  “I think so.”

  Clients often do this. They expect you to remember the exact details of their inner landscape at a moment’s notice, forgetting that you may have dozens of other inner landscapes currently on your books. But, for reasons to do with my own inner landscape, I did remember the main features of Gwydion’s dream, quite accurately.

  “You were in the box. The dark space. You were afraid. You could hear voices above you, shouting. And then a sudden jolt.”

  “That’s right. I’m down there in the dark.” As usual, he got straight down to business, closing his eyes and lowering his voice to a whisper. I noticed that he’d begun to talk in the present tense. “I’m terrified. Afraid I’m going to die. And then . . . outside the box, right outside, a splash. A loud splash, as though something heavy, like a body, has fallen into water. The box moves again, and I realize that it’s floating on the water. With me inside it.” His voice began to tremble slightly. “I begin to scream, louder and louder. Nobody comes, nobody can hear me, so I scream as hard as I can. And then, suddenly, I wake up.”