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Authors: Charlotte Williams
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took a step back from the edge of the cliff. There was no form of fencing or hedging between us and the abyss, and I wished there was.
“I know,” said Arianrhod. “It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “As long as I keep away from the edge. I don’t have much of a head for heights, I’m afraid.”
We gazed out in silence at the sea. Then I looked down and noticed there were some steps and a handrail cut into the side of the cliff, leading down to a jetty that stuck out over the rocks below.
“Can you get down there?” I asked. “Not that I’m thinking of trying.”
Arianrhod laughed. “It’s safer than it looks, actually. We often go down and swim off the jetty out there in the summer. Even at this time of year, if the weather’s good. The sea’s warmed up by now. I mean, when I say warm . . .” She laughed again. She seemed to have a habit of ending, or rather not ending, her sentences with a laugh.
She led me over to the top of the steps, and I peered down at them cautiously. Now that I was close up to them, I could see they were cut quite deep into the rock. With one hand on the rail, they’d be fairly safe, if a little slippery. Even so, it was a very long way down to the sea.
“I really must be getting on,” I said. “I’d like to be home before it gets dark.”
“Of course. It’s getting late. I hadn’t realized . . .” Another unfinished sentence. Another laugh.
I was about to turn and go when I noticed there was a little plaque at the top of the steps, with a name and a date inscribed on it: ELSA LINDBERG 1971–1990 . Below it some words in a foreign language. A Nordic one, by the look of the A s with little circles on the top, and the O s with umlauts over them.
“What’s this?”
“Oh.” She paused a moment. “Very sad. A young girl, a tourist from Sweden, I believe. It was a long time ago. There’ve been a few casualties here over the years, I’m sorry to say. Mostly people who swim out too far. The currents can be very treacherous.”
There was something offhand in the way she spoke that contrasted with the usual intensity of her manner. I wondered whether the accident had upset her more than she was letting on.
“I can imagine.” For a moment an image of the girl, and of her cold, lonely death out there in the slate-gray waters, flashed through my mind. But it didn’t do to dwell on it, so after a moment I added, “Come on. Let’s go.”
As we walked back up the path I took a last glance down at the steps and out to sea. In the short time we’d been there the tide seemed to have moved in, stealthily, without me noticing, so that the water was now approaching the bottom of the cliffs. I shivered involuntarily. I was glad to be leaving.
6
When I got home, after a tedious drive back up the motorway, the house was empty. I checked my phone and found two messages. Bob was working late—no surprise there—and Nella had gone out with her friends. Rose, I knew, was off on a school outing to see a play. They’d both arranged for Bob to pick them up on his way home. There was nothing for me to do, no one who needed me. I could relax if I wanted to, please myself, have some “me” time, as the women’s magazines call it: pour myself a drink, take a long, hot bath, cook myself a dish the girls don’t like—risotto, perhaps, or soup—read something undemanding, and get an early night.
Tonight, however, I didn’t want any “me” time. I wanted to be out and about, with people around me, lights, noise, chatter. Anything to prevent me from thinking too hard, to dim the memory of my trip to the Morgan place: that odd house, those odd people, and my odd part in their lives. And, luckily enough, it was Friday.
A group of my friends, all women, meet up regularly on Friday nights for a drink at our local arts center. Sometimes we eat there, or take in a film, but mostly we just sit around talking, winding down at the end of a busy
“I know,” said Arianrhod. “It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “As long as I keep away from the edge. I don’t have much of a head for heights, I’m afraid.”
We gazed out in silence at the sea. Then I looked down and noticed there were some steps and a handrail cut into the side of the cliff, leading down to a jetty that stuck out over the rocks below.
“Can you get down there?” I asked. “Not that I’m thinking of trying.”
Arianrhod laughed. “It’s safer than it looks, actually. We often go down and swim off the jetty out there in the summer. Even at this time of year, if the weather’s good. The sea’s warmed up by now. I mean, when I say warm . . .” She laughed again. She seemed to have a habit of ending, or rather not ending, her sentences with a laugh.
She led me over to the top of the steps, and I peered down at them cautiously. Now that I was close up to them, I could see they were cut quite deep into the rock. With one hand on the rail, they’d be fairly safe, if a little slippery. Even so, it was a very long way down to the sea.
“I really must be getting on,” I said. “I’d like to be home before it gets dark.”
“Of course. It’s getting late. I hadn’t realized . . .” Another unfinished sentence. Another laugh.
I was about to turn and go when I noticed there was a little plaque at the top of the steps, with a name and a date inscribed on it: ELSA LINDBERG 1971–1990 . Below it some words in a foreign language. A Nordic one, by the look of the A s with little circles on the top, and the O s with umlauts over them.
“What’s this?”
“Oh.” She paused a moment. “Very sad. A young girl, a tourist from Sweden, I believe. It was a long time ago. There’ve been a few casualties here over the years, I’m sorry to say. Mostly people who swim out too far. The currents can be very treacherous.”
There was something offhand in the way she spoke that contrasted with the usual intensity of her manner. I wondered whether the accident had upset her more than she was letting on.
“I can imagine.” For a moment an image of the girl, and of her cold, lonely death out there in the slate-gray waters, flashed through my mind. But it didn’t do to dwell on it, so after a moment I added, “Come on. Let’s go.”
As we walked back up the path I took a last glance down at the steps and out to sea. In the short time we’d been there the tide seemed to have moved in, stealthily, without me noticing, so that the water was now approaching the bottom of the cliffs. I shivered involuntarily. I was glad to be leaving.
6
When I got home, after a tedious drive back up the motorway, the house was empty. I checked my phone and found two messages. Bob was working late—no surprise there—and Nella had gone out with her friends. Rose, I knew, was off on a school outing to see a play. They’d both arranged for Bob to pick them up on his way home. There was nothing for me to do, no one who needed me. I could relax if I wanted to, please myself, have some “me” time, as the women’s magazines call it: pour myself a drink, take a long, hot bath, cook myself a dish the girls don’t like—risotto, perhaps, or soup—read something undemanding, and get an early night.
Tonight, however, I didn’t want any “me” time. I wanted to be out and about, with people around me, lights, noise, chatter. Anything to prevent me from thinking too hard, to dim the memory of my trip to the Morgan place: that odd house, those odd people, and my odd part in their lives. And, luckily enough, it was Friday.
A group of my friends, all women, meet up regularly on Friday nights for a drink at our local arts center. Sometimes we eat there, or take in a film, but mostly we just sit around talking, winding down at the end of a busy
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