The House on the Edge of the Cliff

by Carol Drinkwater

  Why this sudden change of programme? Did they know something I didn’t?

  ‘I’ll head back right now, pick up the car and drive to La Ciotat.’

  ‘No need to fuss, darling. Just a thought. See you when you return. Je t’aime.’

  And the phone went dead. I was staring at a blank screen, a tad puzzled, concerned about whether there might or might not be a reason for the girls to have shifted their plans forward by a week. Until I calmed myself with the reminder that I was Peter’s wife. Do other second wives react in this way? Even after all these years? Do they forget that they are the next of kin, the primary port of call? If there was an emergency, I would be the first to be informed, not his daughters, no matter how close they were.

  I rummaged in my shoulder bag, dug out my purse and coins for my coffee. I slid three euros fifty onto the table beneath my half-finished cup, stuffed my book and that morning’s newspaper into my bag, hoisted the strap over my shoulder and stood up, kicking the circulation in my legs back into life. The man in the Panama was hovering. He appeared to be watching out for someone, awaiting their arrival from my direction. He stood about thirty metres from me, staring. I turned my back on him, thinking no more about him other than to remark silently that he seemed out of place. At that stage, I hadn’t the slightest clue that I was the object of his attentions. In fact, once I was on my way home, I forgot about him altogether.

  I was deliberating on my route and decided it would be preferable to take the mountain path. It was a stickier, more challenging climb, even with the high breezes coming in off the sea to cool me but, although it was also marginally longer, it was a more straightforward trek than skipping and hopping the rocky coves. Another bonus: there were occasional cars passing along the upper road, which might mean the chance of a lift, if I was lucky.

  I felt an urgent desire to reach home as soon as possible, to be reassured that all was well and that Peter was not fobbing me off with excuses when in reality he had need of me and was too proud or protective of me to ask outright. As I stepped away from the table, the yellow van belonging to Jacques, our postman, was turning and reversing at the far end of the small square. Having delivered letters to the Hôtel Restanjou, no doubt. I glanced at my watch and calculated that Jacques was almost certainly heading in our direction. Our mail was usually with us a little before lunch. I began to wave and hurried along the quay in his direction.

  ‘Jacques!’ I called. A woman with two small children and a tan short-haired wiry dog was entering the cobbled place. Her terrier ran to the rear of the La Poste van, yapping, causing the postman to brake hard. That proved to be my good fortune. I reached the stationary vehicle and popped my head through the open passenger window. ‘Are you on your way to us? If so, can I grab a lift?’

  Jacques smiled, leaning over to unlatch the passenger door. ‘You’re in luck, Madame. Jump in. If it hadn’t been for that blasted dog I would have been up the hill already. All well with Monsieur Soames? We hear he’s due for an op.’

  I climbed in and our young postman skidded off almost before I had slammed the door. His cab smelt of peppermints and rosemary, a sprig of which hung from the rear-view mirror. He switched off the radio, a morning news programme. ‘There’s post for you. It’s top of the pile right behind you. Mostly bills. You can dig it out yourself, if you like. It’ll save me going right to your front door, if that’s fine with you. I’m a little behind schedule. It’s been one of those mornings, and I need to finish smack on time today. I’m driving the missus to La Ciotat for her check-up. It’s to be a boy. Did she tell you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Congratulations. Claudine must be thrilled. I know she said she was praying for a boy.’

  ‘We both were, and we both are. Thrilled. Third time lucky, eh?’

  I glanced out of the window towards the open water beyond a stately château hidden behind palm trees and olives, and renowned for its fine wines grown on a sea-facing vineyard. Far out on the glittering water, a trio of tankers broke the line of the horizon. The hot morning gleamed beneath them, like a silver plate. Gulls were wheeling and mewing overhead in a sky of uninterrupted blue. It was an idyllic scene. I worshipped days like this, never-ending spring feeding me with optimism.

  ‘I swear it’s getting hotter. I don’t remember a May when it’s been so clammy. The air-conditioning in this bloody banger isn’t up to much. I keep complaining about it to the powers that be, but no one does anything. Will you be staying here throughout the summer, Madame? You usually do, don’t you?’

  I nodded, trying to recall. We had so rarely travelled away from here during the summer months since we first moved into the house in the mid-nineties that I was rather surprised by Jacques’s question.

  ‘Of course, you’re well protected from all the holidaymakers up there on your private plot. Few sightseers, not even the curious or your most ardent fans, will want to stagger up to Heron Heights in the sweltering months. It must be a relief to be so isolated, and at that altitude when the heat waves hit. The tourists are a curse as much as a blessing. Or that’s what we locals feel most of the time.’

  Jacques braked hard and pulled the van over at the junction where our stony track rose up to meet the road. I swung round and lifted out the top pile of letters held together with an elastic band. ‘Thank you so much. Good luck at the clinic this afternoon and say hello to Claudine from me. It’s splendid news.’ I stepped out and shut the tinny old door. My espadrilles dislodged a spattering of dust, which expanded to a great cloud as the wheels of Jacques’ van spun and clawed at the unmade path.

  I stood a moment, watching the disappearing jalopy, daydreaming about nothing in particular, listening to the skylarks and drinking in the view with the swallows gathering in swelling flocks. Bliss.

  The sea was so still. It glinted turquoise close to the shore and grew in depth of colour to an intense emerald and peacock blue the further out I cast my eyes. What could be more perfect? I decided I’d go for another swim later, once I was confident that all was well with Peter. I’d prepare him a light lunch beneath the shade of one of the fig trees that had shot up from wild in the garden, and then I’d drive to La Ciotat and buy us all some delicious fish. I breathed in the rich scent of broom, in full crocus-yellow blossom, across the hillsides to the rear of the house. It was a flawless day and I was looking forward to a pleasant hour alone before the arrival of Peter’s daughters and rumbustious grandchildren.

  Later the same day Jubilation at the Marseille Saint-Charles railway station

  ‘Nanny Two! Nanny Two! Nanny Two!’

  Still wearing his duffel coat, buttons undone, front flying open as he moved, Harry was haring across the concourse as though the place was on fire, his face broken by a toothy grin as broad as the white cliffs of Dover. I was on my haunches, the bag hanging from my shoulder scuffing the floor, arms outstretched to welcome my favourite lad. I think it was no secret that Harry was the caramel-eyed child of my heart. I loved them all with a passion, all five, of course, and one should never have favourites even among those who are not your flesh and blood, but Harry, at just six years old, had stolen my heart.

  Whoomph.

  The force of his squat, muscular frame bulleting into mine almost sent me toppling backwards. His arms were wrapped about my neck, gripping too tight.

  ‘Hello, Nanny Two,’ he gurgled in my ear, as though confirming the validity, the physical reality of my existence. I inhaled him, his smooth downy flesh. He smelt of chocolate and something delicate and soapy, like a lavender-scented shampoo.

  ‘Hello, big boy. Good to see you. How’s life?’

  ‘We came on the train.’

  ‘Yes.’ I attempted to pick him up and carry him in my arms as I struggled for balance and rocked myself to a standing position. ‘My, you’ve grown. You’re getting too big for all this lifting,’ I laughed.

  ‘I am one hundred and seventeen centimetres tall and I weigh twenty-one point five kilograms. The doctor, Mrs Jenning
s, she told Mummy that I’m big for my age and getting cleverer and cleverer. I’m almost a giant.’

  ‘I think you’re just perfect. Come on, let’s find Mummy and the rest of the gang.’

  Harry was Sam’s youngest. She had two more, Marcus and Trish, twins. Jenny had two girls.

  ‘There they are!’

  The new arrivals were waving, jumping up and down in an untidy huddle – souvenir selfies snapped on smartphones. I grasped Harry’s podgy trusting hand and we skipped towards them.

  Only later, when I looked back over the entire sequence of George’s arrival in our lives and the terrifying events that followed, did I recall a man, a lone silhouette, late fifties, early sixties – older? – balding, in a dark ill-cut suit. He was poised in three-quarter profile beneath the station clock, which read thirty-six minutes past five. He was wearing dark glasses. I couldn’t see his eyes, but it was possible that his attention was levelled on me as I hurried by him, clutching my grandson. I didn’t fully note him at the time and even today I cannot be certain that it was him …

  I herded the family outside. We swooped down the steps, hurrying round to the rear of the station where I had parked my Renault Espace. We were struggling with the luggage, gabbling and shouting over one another, overexcited, everyone recounting anecdotes from their journey, while Peter’s daughters were firing questions at me, digging for facts about their father’s health. Harry, gripping tight to my fingers and skipping in front of me, was walking backwards, pausing suddenly to quiz me with endless questions, counting out loud, almost knocking me over.

  ‘One hundred and four.’ He grinned.

  ‘One hundred and four what, Harry?’

  ‘Steps leading down from the station. See how well I can count, Nanny Two.’

  Harry was spot on. There were precisely one hundred and four steps. I remembered counting them myself as I descended from the station in the company of Peter on my maiden visit.

  As we bustled into the car, a memory returned of Agnes in one of her multi-coloured frocks with purple beads the size of golf balls. She was waiting at almost the same spot as I had just now been waiting in the station. She was there to collect her beloved nephew, Peter, who was proudly escorting me, welcoming me into his aunt’s world. ‘Peter’s new friend,’ she’d said. ‘What a pleasure, my dear.’

  My very first trip to Marseille, to the South of France.

  It was hard to believe how long ago that was. June 1968. A year, a summer, that had marked me for ever.

  ‘Hello, my sweethearts. All my sweethearts together!’

  ‘Here we are!’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘It’s so good to see you, my darlings.’

  ‘I want to hug Granddad first! Let me, please!’

  ‘No, me first.’

  ‘No pushing, please.’

  Peter had been keeping himself busy in the kitchen during my absence. Our arrival was greeted with shouts and cheers, hugs and kisses, bodies bumping amiably against one another, and the scents of sorrel, dill and fish bubbling in a pot. How Peter loved to cook. Champagne was on ice while small feet clumped up the stairs to the bedrooms on the first floor.

  I had left the tribe to choose between themselves which beds they wanted in the guestrooms. Sam and Jenny flung themselves into rockers on the veranda, kicked off shoes, peeled off cardigans and scarves, their city attire, and dragged their half-reluctant father by both arms to seat him at their sides.

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ cried Sam. As, literally, a tear fell. ‘Oh, Dad, I’m so happy to see you.’

  ‘How are you, Dad?’ begged Jenny.

  I pottered in the kitchen, discreetly taking some distance. The kids above were hollering and pattering from room to room. Doors were slamming.

  ‘I’m putting on my bathers.’

  ‘It’s too late for swimming, silly. The sharks will get you!’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Nanny Two bought a cake – she told me. It’s a secret.’

  Peter was assuring his daughters of his ongoing good health, remaining placid, while they interrogated him relentlessly about the impending operation. I uncorked the champagne and carried it, along with tray, glasses and a bowl of salted nuts – not for Peter, who had been warned to avoid salt – out to the veranda.

  ‘Sam, Jenny, when the kids come down, there are fruit juices in the fridge and a couple of tubs of Häagen-Dazs, chocolate, in the freezer.’

  No one appeared to have heard or registered my words. Two young women, with earnest expressions, were locked onto their father’s every syllable. Their anxieties paralleled mine. Ah, it was going to be a joy to be in the company of women.

  I poured myself a glass of champagne, slipped off my sandals and wandered out onto the grass in my bare feet to the flight of steps that descended to the beach. Halfway down the decline of fifty-four, I settled. There I perched, gazing out at the waves, contemplating the movement of the sea, listening to the plaintive calls of a pair of cinnamon-chested hoopoes hiding in the brush somewhere to the east side of the house. It was too early for sunset. Even so, I loved this time of day. The slow shift, the melting and mixing of colours from intense to pastel that accompanied twilight. I glanced at my watch. It was ten past seven. The days were getting longer.

  The bay was empty, not a footprint in sight. I loved the fact that we could almost claim this bay as ours, so few passed this way. Our yacht, Phaedra, was rocking rhythmically in the shallow waters, inactive for a few weeks. We could take the kids out in it over the weekend. If Peter didn’t feel up to the trip, I could skipper her. That’d be fun. They’d enjoy that.

  So why did the prospect of such a day out not swell my heart with gladness?

  Some inner fret was badgering me.

  Images, black and white, hoary, indistinct, were flashing in and out of my mind’s eye. I could not grasp or identify them and I had no clear notion of what was triggering my unease. Today of all days, when I had not been mournful or idle or nostalgic but had been actively occupied with the arrival of Peter’s family, excited at the prospect of their company. I sipped my champagne and closed my eyes.

  What was there? A vestige of what?

  A sketchy portrait, grainy, like scuffed fragments of an incomplete timeworn photograph. The images were dancing and circling, rising and flickering, swinging in and out of my subconscious, but they faded before I could grab hold of anything specific, piece it together and recognize what my anguish was about.

  I was beginning to feel sick with a presentiment I could not put my finger on. It was not about the girls’ early arrival, which had been triggered by nothing more sinister than a switch in exam dates for one of their offspring. I was counting the days till Peter’s wretched operation was behind us. Surely my unsettled mood was caused by the drawn-out waiting, the anxiety as to whether or not my husband would survive the ordeal. That had to be the shadow lurking over me.

  ‘Grace!’ I spun round to see Peter high above me on the grass, waving. Lord, how drawn he looked, how frail, his face a little sunken, his hair almost white. Was that how the girls had viewed him, not having set eyes on him for months? He had grown so fragile in a way I hadn’t noticed before, as though the gleam, the essence was slowly leaking out of him. He looked aged, and … and frighteningly mortal.

  ‘Please, don’t let me lose him,’ I whispered to no one, to the falling evening air.

  I lifted my arm to acknowledge his call and managed a perfect smile. ‘Coming!’ I trilled. The accomplished actress that I am.

  He nodded, padded out of sight.

  Was I taking sufficient care of him? Was he eating enough, getting plenty of sleep? The girls were here now. They would lend a hand and chide me for my incessant worrying.

  The ghosts within me had taken fright, vanished. I rose to my full height, brushed the sand off my clothes and ascended the steps to join my husband and his daughters for apéritifs and a delicious fish dinner.

  The depth of my disq
uiet was illogical.

  Peter’s check-up was booked for eleven the following morning at his regular clinic in Marseille. Ordinarily, I would have chauffeured him into the city, but Sam was suggesting that on this occasion she and her sister accompany him, tackle the traffic, while I stayed behind with the brood. Secretly, I think they both wished to be assured by a professional source that Peter’s rather flippant delivery of the gravity of his predicament was accurate. They had a string of questions requiring in-depth answers, particularly Sam, always the more exacting of the pair. She never let anything escape until she had scratched the bottom of the barrel, unearthed and examined every final detail. She hadn’t qualified as an investigative journalist for nothing.

  I was more than delighted to accept beach-patrol duty. Hours alone with the youngsters were a rare gift for me and I was enjoying the prospect of taking on the responsibility, leaving father and daughters to a day on their own. After Peter’s appointment, they were planning to lunch at one of the many excellent fish restaurants circling the old port, while Jenny was keen to visit the recent museum addition, the MuCEM, which I had been raving about over our meal the previous evening. I was told to expect them back for drinks before dinner.

  We ate an early breakfast together, without the children, adults en famille. Sam was updating me on the developments of her three, priming me of their needs. She reeled off facts as lists.

  ‘Marcus and Trish are swimming easily. No fears of the water at all. Harry can manage without armbands in the shallow end of our local pool when I’m with him, but you should definitely make sure he wears them if he wants to paddle in the sea, which he will. Marcus will watch over him. He’s good with his younger brother. Very patient.’

  Pale-skinned Jenny, on the other hand, was silently sipping her black coffee, not yet entirely awake. A packet of cigarettes had been placed on the table alongside her untouched plate. She ate like a sparrow, smoked too much, was getting rather skinny and was two marriages down.