Read Online The House on the Cliff by Charlotte Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Williams
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session we’d had. And clients quite often send me notes they’ve written in advance, rather than bringing up difficult issues in the session. This was evidently just a variation on that theme.
I felt a sense of satisfaction. Although I’d brushed it aside at the time, the question of the photograph, and the message beneath it, had been at the back of my mind ever since it had arrived. Now I could cross off that small but irritating anomaly in my life.
We reached a high stone wall.
“This way.” Arianrhod opened a small wooden door set into it and ushered me through.
Gardens by the sea are strange places. There’s a beauty to them, but they’re not comfortable, domestic, tamed. The salt wind stunts the trees, twists them out of shape, and the shrubs, bushes, and plants wear a tough, embattled air as though struggling for their right to survive. Arianrhod’s garden was no exception, but the stone walls facing out to sea helped to shelter it. It had been carefully planted, too, with an emphasis on architectural form, on the contrasting shapes and colors of branches and leaves, rather than flowers. And the design of the garden was a pretty one, a series of walled squares, each connected to the next by a little wooden door, with narrow paths that led around the lawns and beds.
I’m not much of a gardener myself—I’m reserving it for my old age, when I’ll have more time—but I could see, as we walked around, that a lot of work had gone into maintaining the place. The lawns within each walled square were mown, the edges of the beds clipped, the leaves raked into neat piles in the corners. It was as lovingly cared for as such a windblown spot could be.
“Do you do this all yourself?” I asked, as we walked into the final square, which was evidently the kitchen garden.
“Well, there’s a man who comes in to do the lawns.” Arianrhod brushed the hair out of her eyes. “But that’s all.”
“It must be a lot of work.”
“It is. But I like it.” She reached up and deadheaded a rose as we passed. “It’s peaceful out here. Relaxing.” She paused. “I’m so keyed up most of the time. What with Gwydion and . . .” She hesitated.
I sensed there was about to be an intimate revelation, possibly about Evan, but I headed it off at the pass.
“Well, it’s lovely. You’ve obviously got an eye for this sort of thing.”
I wasn’t being unsympathetic, but I didn’t want to talk to Arianrhod about her husband. She wasn’t my client, Gwydion was. And if there were problems in the family, which there evidently were, I’d rather hear about them from the horse’s mouth than the horse’s mother.
Arianrhod seemed to get the message and changed the subject. “Do you want to go out and look at the view from the cliff top?” she asked. “It’s pretty spectacular.”
“Fine,” I said. I felt the urge to get away, before Arianrhod decided to confide in me further, but I didn’t like to refuse. Besides, I wanted to look out at the sea before I left. I wanted to store it up in my mind for future use. If I take a long look at something beautiful during the day, I’m often able to recall it in detail when I’m in bed at night, and it helps to get me off to sleep. It’s a trick I’ve learned, and I sometimes recommend it to my clients as a cheap alternative to Temazepam.
We walked through another small wooden door out onto a narrow cliff top path, which led through a dense thicket of gorse bushes and brambles to a small clearing. We stopped there and looked out over the vast expanse of slate-gray sea, stretching far off into the hazy horizon beyond.
It was, indeed, spectacular. The tide was out, and below us was a dizzying drop down to the exposed seabed, a sheet of cratered rock like a slimy brown moon, pitted, turreted, treacherous. Around it hung a curtain of yellow cliffs, the soft limestone layered like mortarless bricks on a half-demolished building.
Without thinking, I caught my breath and
I felt a sense of satisfaction. Although I’d brushed it aside at the time, the question of the photograph, and the message beneath it, had been at the back of my mind ever since it had arrived. Now I could cross off that small but irritating anomaly in my life.
We reached a high stone wall.
“This way.” Arianrhod opened a small wooden door set into it and ushered me through.
Gardens by the sea are strange places. There’s a beauty to them, but they’re not comfortable, domestic, tamed. The salt wind stunts the trees, twists them out of shape, and the shrubs, bushes, and plants wear a tough, embattled air as though struggling for their right to survive. Arianrhod’s garden was no exception, but the stone walls facing out to sea helped to shelter it. It had been carefully planted, too, with an emphasis on architectural form, on the contrasting shapes and colors of branches and leaves, rather than flowers. And the design of the garden was a pretty one, a series of walled squares, each connected to the next by a little wooden door, with narrow paths that led around the lawns and beds.
I’m not much of a gardener myself—I’m reserving it for my old age, when I’ll have more time—but I could see, as we walked around, that a lot of work had gone into maintaining the place. The lawns within each walled square were mown, the edges of the beds clipped, the leaves raked into neat piles in the corners. It was as lovingly cared for as such a windblown spot could be.
“Do you do this all yourself?” I asked, as we walked into the final square, which was evidently the kitchen garden.
“Well, there’s a man who comes in to do the lawns.” Arianrhod brushed the hair out of her eyes. “But that’s all.”
“It must be a lot of work.”
“It is. But I like it.” She reached up and deadheaded a rose as we passed. “It’s peaceful out here. Relaxing.” She paused. “I’m so keyed up most of the time. What with Gwydion and . . .” She hesitated.
I sensed there was about to be an intimate revelation, possibly about Evan, but I headed it off at the pass.
“Well, it’s lovely. You’ve obviously got an eye for this sort of thing.”
I wasn’t being unsympathetic, but I didn’t want to talk to Arianrhod about her husband. She wasn’t my client, Gwydion was. And if there were problems in the family, which there evidently were, I’d rather hear about them from the horse’s mouth than the horse’s mother.
Arianrhod seemed to get the message and changed the subject. “Do you want to go out and look at the view from the cliff top?” she asked. “It’s pretty spectacular.”
“Fine,” I said. I felt the urge to get away, before Arianrhod decided to confide in me further, but I didn’t like to refuse. Besides, I wanted to look out at the sea before I left. I wanted to store it up in my mind for future use. If I take a long look at something beautiful during the day, I’m often able to recall it in detail when I’m in bed at night, and it helps to get me off to sleep. It’s a trick I’ve learned, and I sometimes recommend it to my clients as a cheap alternative to Temazepam.
We walked through another small wooden door out onto a narrow cliff top path, which led through a dense thicket of gorse bushes and brambles to a small clearing. We stopped there and looked out over the vast expanse of slate-gray sea, stretching far off into the hazy horizon beyond.
It was, indeed, spectacular. The tide was out, and below us was a dizzying drop down to the exposed seabed, a sheet of cratered rock like a slimy brown moon, pitted, turreted, treacherous. Around it hung a curtain of yellow cliffs, the soft limestone layered like mortarless bricks on a half-demolished building.
Without thinking, I caught my breath and
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