The House on the Edge of the Cliff

by Carol Drinkwater

  We strode up the dunes, entered the house by the back door and ditched the fish in Agnes’s tall refrigerator in the kitchen, where Bruce was sleeping in his basket in a cool corner, and we began rummaging for beers. We found none. While I filled Bruce’s bowl with tap water, Pierre tossed his sullied shirt into the rubbish bin, which shocked me. ‘Why don’t you wash it? I can do it for you.’

  ‘Forget it. C’mon, babe, let’s drive to town and buy some beers.’

  The dog lifted himself on unsteady, sleepy legs ready to accompany us and then, as Pierre pushed him back with his foot, disappointed, resettled himself among his rugs.

  The pretty little town with ochre-coloured houses along the seafront towards the Strand was heaving with tourists. How could the two worlds nestling alongside one another be so different?

  ‘Let’s grab a crate of beers and get out of here. I can’t take this action. It’s doing my head in.’

  We pulled up outside a store, an épicerie, where tourists stared open-mouthed at Pierre’s car, which he seemed not to notice or ignored, and picked up two crates, each of a dozen chilled beers and a litre bottle of vodka. Pierre pulled cash from his shorts pocket and peeled the notes off a thick roll. His funds appeared bottomless.

  We had installed ourselves on the terrace at Agnes’s fancy house. The beers had been stacked on their sides in the refrigerator and those that wouldn’t fit were on the floor by the sink with four chilled bottles at the ready, lined up at our feet. Inside, in the grand salon, one of the two ground-floor living rooms that faced out to the sea, shaded from the light by several shuttered windows, a television set was playing. Pierre had switched it on as we’d made our way out onto the terrace.

  ‘How about that? The screen’s in colour,’ he marvelled. ‘Pretty fancy, huh? She’s quite something your posh friend’s mother.’

  ‘She’s not his mother.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Outside, The Wailers were warbling on Pierre’s tranny.

  I had taken a shower and changed into a T-shirt and shorts, splashed myself in lavender cologne. A headache was throbbing at the rear of my skull. It was the dope, I felt sure, but I didn’t complain, didn’t mention it, inhaled a lungful of the fresh sea air, and hoped to clear my fogged brain with a beer.

  ‘Fuck, look at this. Tanks. Those are Russian tanks. They’re rolling into – where is this? It’s Prague.’

  I rose from the wooden rocker, steadying myself, and scuttled inside.

  ‘What does that say?’

  I shook my head. ‘No idea.’

  Someone on the screen was holding up a handwritten message, waving it like a poster. It threw up memories of Paris, of the violence, of the crowds in the streets, but here the people were passive, or those I could see, the few the camera was recording. Standing in front of the TV, we watched what appeared to be a live transmission, watched the tanks entering the main streets of the Communist city. Now, we spotted a few students who were leaping up onto one or two of the tanks brandishing the red, white and blue Czechoslovakian flag, but on the whole the mood was one of shock, of muted disbelief.

  ‘They’re bringing down the Prague Spring, taking back control, rescinding the reforms fought for earlier this year. Freedom of the press, citizens’ rights … Peter should be here. He has to see this. It’s all gone wrong. De Gaulle is back in Paris, consolidating his support, having quashed the riots. The students thought he’d be destroyed, his career finished. What did everyone fight for?’

  ‘They’re not Communists, they’re Fascists.’ Pierre shook his head at the screen, then strode from the crepuscular light of the salon out to the breeze on the veranda and our chilled beers.

  That was the first expression of emotion I had seen from him, the first demonstration of any unreserved opinion and it surprised me – surprised me that he cared about the politics on display.

  My brain was dipping up and down, spinning in loopy circles as though I was travelling in a flying saucer. I was too stoned to worry about whether Peter or Agnes would object to my having invited Pierre into the house. It was not the first time he had seen the interior of Agnes’s home – he’d been in a couple of days earlier to share a bottle of wine with the three of us – but the suggestion that he sleep beneath Agnes’s roof had not been made and I was too smashed now to reason it through.

  ‘Why not sleep here tonight?’ I repeated my invitation while we were staring out to sea, supping our beer from the bottles, reflecting on Czechoslovakia. I was attempting not to slur my words. The prospect of him being only a few rooms away from me had set my heart thumping so fast I thought I’d faint.

  Pierre mulled over the suggestion in silence, seeming to weigh it up with some deliberation, until he replied, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Let’s get your stuff now while it’s still light.’

  ‘It’ll be light for some time. No rush. You want another beer?’

  I shook my head. It rattled like a clogged-up washing-machine. My constitution couldn’t handle any more stimulants. ‘I feel wobbly,’ I confessed.

  ‘Seriously? You want a ’lude?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Quaalude. It’ll calm your heartbeat.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, trying not to sound miserable because I couldn’t have been happier. I stood up from my chair a little unsteadily – ‘Whoops’ – and the room began to spin.

  ‘A powerful tranquillizer, sedative. Harmless. You’ll feel great. Popped after the deadly white powder when it gets a hold and is a little too intense. When the heart starts beating like a galloping horse.’

  I nodded, gripping the arm of my chair. ‘Yes, please.’ I thought I was going to vomit. I didn’t know whether the sick sensation was caused by my desire for Pierre or over-indulgence in unaccustomed drugs. My head was seesawing. I was a spinning top out of control. I allowed myself to sink to the floor. Once there, and stabilized, I drew my knees up tight to my chest to keep myself grounded. The palms of my hands were clutching ferociously onto the rattan rug. Its natural rough fibre was cutting into my flesh, the tender, awkward triangular bit, like webbing, between my thumbs and forefingers.

  Bruce was back in his basket, in the corner close to the entrance to the kitchen. His eyes fixed upon me, he was whining.

  ‘I haven’t fed the dog,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t feel well.’

  When I attempted to draw myself to my feet again, I realized I was alone. Pierre had gone, and the dog was thumping his tail.

  Pierre returned from his car with one of the folded envelopes I had seen in the glove compartment earlier. Was that today, or yesterday? How long had Peter been gone? Had we been snorting cocaine? Pierre had mentioned cocaine. When was Peter coming back? I had lost all sense of time and perspective. I watched as Pierre dipped his fingers into the envelope and pulled out a small white tablet. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You need water or a swig of beer to wash it down.’

  ‘Water.’ I groaned, and said again, ‘I haven’t fed the dog.’

  ‘Mellow, babe. I’ll feed him.’

  My heartthrob, knight in shining armour, went in search of a glass while I allowed my head to flop forwards. It felt too heavy for my body; it was unbalancing me. Was it my head or someone else’s? A tap was running. Popular music was emanating from the television. My lips were trembling and I began to dribble. Bruce was whining again. He padded from his basket and began to turn in circles snapping at his tail. Had he been given drugs too? When Pierre returned with the glass, I was back on the floor, on my knees, holding my head in my hands, squeezing it, trying to silence the cacophony in my brain. This was hardly the image I’d been attempting to project. The seduction I’d hoped to pull off.

  ‘Here.’ Mr Gorgeous was offering me a glass of water and an oval white tablet. I took it shakily from between his fingers, trusting him as he bent on his haunches and steadied me with his left hand. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment.’ I was trying to sound light-hearted, insouciant
, but it didn’t come off.

  ‘Swallow it with a slug of water and then maybe you need to lie down.’

  ‘Don’t forget to feed the dog, please.’

  When I regained consciousness later, spread-eagled on my single bed, my head was splitting. The last thing I could bring to mind was Pierre assisting me up the stairs to my room. Not carrying me exactly, hauling me and directing me with his hands beneath my armpits. Once horizontal, he had pulled off my plimsolls and tossed them to the floor.

  How much earlier was that? For how long had I been sleeping?

  Gingerly now, I lifted my head from the pillow and glanced down at my body. I was still wearing my shorts and T-shirt. Fully dressed. The door was closed. Pierre had shut it behind him. He hadn’t touched me.

  I hauled myself up onto my elbows, concentrating, listening for sounds throughout the house. Waves beyond the open windows washed against the shore. In the distance, downstairs, music was playing. Pink Floyd, a track from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. I loved this track. Which one was it? ‘Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun’. I quite fancied the new bloke, the guitarist, Dave Gilmour. I thought he was pretty gorgeous. Not as much as Pierre, who was more than pretty gorgeous: he was totally gorgeous and such an elegant, cool guy.

  And I could, couldn’t I, discern the hum of conversation in one of the rooms on the ground floor? Was Pierre singing or talking to himself? He had a guitar. Maybe he’d play to me, like my dad used to. Who was he talking to? Using Agnes’s telephone? I had no clock and not a clue where I had left my watch. When had I last worn it? Outside, the light had disappeared. Was it night or pre-dawn? For how long had I been sleeping? I could get up, go and find out. What would Peter say? Peter. Might he have returned from Italy? Pierre could well be in conversation with Peter. I should go back downstairs. My head felt like a kicked football. Tears pricked my eyes. My day with Pierre had been spoiled by my inability to handle a few beers, a couple of joints and loads of other powdery stuff and pills. What an unsophisticated child he must judge me. I dragged myself off the bed. Cold water splashed on face. A shot gulped from the tap. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt. All set to go.

  Pierre had installed himself in a bedroom further along the corridor. I remembered that.

  The house was dark and creaky as I descended the stairs. It was different without Agnes. I missed her. The TV in the living room was still switched on but with the sound muted now. Peter was indeed back: the two men were out on the veranda. Bruce was sleeping peacefully at Peter’s feet. The vodka bottle had been opened, one third consumed, and was on a table between them. Peter was cradling a beer between his fingers. They were not conversing. Pierre was rolling a joint. The very sight of it caused my stomach to turn. The wireless was on, now switched to a French news channel. Peter, head lowered, was concentrating on the relay of events from Prague.

  ‘Hey, you’re back,’ I trilled lightly, unnecessarily.

  He turned at my approach. ‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ he stated. ‘Want some supper?’

  I shook my head and shuffled into the space. ‘Did one of you feed the dog?’

  He nodded, then sighed. ‘Prague’s been invaded.’

  ‘Yeah, we saw it on the television earlier.’

  ‘I should ring my father.’

  ‘Why?’

  He frowned. ‘To hear the facts. Britain’s position on this. The news reported Harold Wilson’s statement. “The invasion is a tragedy not only for Czechoslovakia but for Europe and the rest of the world.” There are demonstrations breaking out in London. Several other governments are calling for Russia and the Warsaw Pact nations to withdraw.’

  I sighed and curled myself into the rocking chair, like a coiled snake, glancing towards Pierre, who did not acknowledge my arrival.

  Later, when we were alone, because Pierre had gone out to his car to close up the roof, Peter remarked upon the fact that I had invited him to stay.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  He shrugged, pursed his lips. ‘We should have discussed it with Agnes first, but it’s too late now,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘She said the other day to make him welcome.’

  ‘I’m not happy about the possession of drugs on her premises without her knowledge, and Pierre is very casual about them. They’re illegal and this is not my house.’

  ‘So is rioting,’ I rebutted. ‘Drugs are revolutionary, like fighting the police and the establishment, digging up pavements, overturning cars, burning your draft card in the States. They’re all part of your revolution,’ I insisted.

  ‘Grace, for pity’s sake, you’re so naive.’ Peter rose from his chair. ‘And did it not occur to you that you might want to discuss such an invitation with me before bringing a stranger into our holiday time together?’ He strode into the main body of the house without waiting for me to offer an explanation, without a glance backwards. He scratched his neck and rubbed one hand over his face.

  ‘It was only for tonight.’

  ‘Well, make sure he’s gone in the morning.’

  ‘Please, don’t be angry.’

  Peter continued indoors out of sight.

  Those were the first cross words that had passed between us, the first rift, the first crack in our bonding, and the cause of it was not the drugs or my juvenile political assessments, as Peter had suggested. It was Pierre.

  ‘Be kind to our Peter,’ Agnes had reminded me, as she had hugged me au revoir. I felt the sting of her words in my guts. I had betrayed them both.

  I asked myself what my reaction would be if Peter insisted Pierre leave. I felt sure that Pierre would not tackle him or resist the command. He would casually pick up the few items he had brought into the house and be on his way. But what would I do? Where did my loyalties lie? I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Peter. He was my dearest friend, but my emotions were cross-wired. My longings had shifted focus. My desire for Peter had never reached these heights.

  That night Peter knocked on my door, apologized for his quick temper and invited me to his room, but I stayed alone again in my monk’s cell. I couldn’t own up to it: I had no desire left for him. I said I felt queasy and ought to get a good night’s sleep.

  In fact, I lay awake, my eyes wide open, staring at the light patterns on the ceiling, yearning for Pierre just a few doors down the corridor. I pictured him in his room and the images aroused me, and no matter what I did I could no longer sleep. I had hoped he might come to me. He knew my room. Eventually I kicked off the sheet and made my way to the window, pushing it wide, resting my arms on the sill, chin in my palms. There, I gazed at the moon moving in an arc over the sea, the waves lapping the sand.

  I had fallen in love with someone I had barely engaged in conversation. I knew nothing about him, not even his name. It made no difference. Since he had first picked me up, I had thought about little else besides my passion for him. Was I being transformed into a druggie and a sex maniac? A druggie, no. The joints had sent me flying off the wall and made me sick.

  Sex with Peter had been fun for a while and I had looked forward to our nights together. So why wasn’t it Peter I was crazy about? My confused emotions saddened me. I was a stranger to these complexities, but wasn’t this what I had come travelling for? To break through my own barriers and experience life to the full? To stop at nothing?

  I got back into bed and lay against my ruffled sheets, curled like a foetus, and gazed out at the sky. It was dark, and the heavens were navy, full of depth and radiant stars. Then I caught a shooter. One, then another, and then so many I could barely count the flights. Oh, my God, this was the Perseid meteor shower zipping across the cloudless sky. It felt as though the heavens were rotating, as though I was being spun on the axis of the earth. Bright fireballs, long, streaking flights. Showers of light. It was magical, beyond all wizardry. Surely I was being blessed. My wishes were coming true.

  Pierre was absent throughout most of the following day. Had Peter sent him packing? He claime
d not. Pierre had taken his car and scuba equipment and disappeared without explanation. I crept into his room and lay on his bed out of the noontime heat, reading poetry.

  The next night I returned to Peter’s room for the first time in a while. He had told me twice during the course of the day that he had been missing me and I decided I must make an effort. He had not turned Pierre away, so I should be more affectionate to him. I waited until we all three had retired to our rooms and then I crept barefoot along the corridor to Peter, knocking softly and leaving the door open when I entered. Had Agnes been in the house I might have been less careless, more jealous of our privacy. Only later, much later, did I ask myself whether I had done it on purpose. The moon was many days from full so the light shining in through Peter’s sea-view was shadowy, dim.

  When I crept in, he was leaning on an elbow, reading Marcuse. He set the book aside, rolled back the sheet to welcome me and I knelt up on the bed.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he purred. I pulled off my T-shirt, tossed it to the floor, lingered a moment, resting the weight of my body on my heels before sinking and sliding deep onto the mattress alongside him. The night was warm, a midsummer heat that had mellowed from the day’s harsh sunlight. The windows were wide open. We lay listening to the movement of the waves. The air smelt vaguely saline. Peter peeled back the flimsy sheet, revealing my abandon to the shadows of the night. He ran his left hand across my abdomen and up towards my breasts before turning me slowly, nudging me onto my side.

  He was behind me, pressed up against my back and buttocks. I was facing the window, facing the open door. I lowered my eyes as I felt his fingers move to enter me and I bumped my buttocks a few inches towards him, inviting him to make love to me. In that moment I was there with Peter, but I had not forgotten Pierre. As Peter moved within me, I fantasized about the other man down the corridor.

  When I lifted my gaze Pierre was there at the open door, watching us. Watching me, watching Peter. Peter’s face was buried within the blades of my shoulders. He was inside me, moving gently back and forth, brushing his lips and tongue across my back. Back and forth, like a cat cleaning itself. I was listening to the rhythm of his breathing, his moans growing feverish in my ear. His line of vision was blocked by my flesh, the expanse of my curves.