Looking Down (9 page)

‘So I did, but very superficially. I found you perfectly sane and lucid, but with certain gaps in the cognitive memory. I took a wild guess at a minor stroke, perhaps, with some residual memory loss.’

Richard looked at John and smiled. They were brilliant blue eyes, shockingly shrewd. Richard nodded.

‘Which may also be worse than it seems,’ John went on, ‘or may improve.’

‘Or not, as the case may be. I seem to have lost some of my senses and acquired others, or maybe it’s painting does that. There are gaps. That’s why I had to come back. Thank you so much for the whisky and your patience. You’re indulging me, I don’t know why, and I interrupted your walk.’

‘Which I shall resume. Perhaps you’ll accompany me. And
I’m not indulging you. I’ve always wanted to know what makes an artist tick, and I’ve other reasons, too. Shall we go?’

‘A pleasure. I’m all yours.’ Richard hauled his bulky body out of the car, talking over his shoulder and gave a shout of laughter as the wind hit his face. ‘You know one of the problems of married life? And retirement. One does so miss the company of men.’

They plodded back up the path, turning to bend into the wind, past the sign
Do not walk
, walking at the same speed like old friends who had often walked together. John thought that the single benefit of age was the gradual erosion of inhibition. When he had been a young and tongue-tied man he would certainly have spoken to strangers – his profession left him no choice – but he would never have taken the risk of speaking openly for fear of being misunderstood. Then life delivered a series of whammies, you discovered the snakes and the ladders, or they discovered you, and you made a few dreadful mistakes, witnessed worse, and without coming to any particular conclusion about the whole damn thing decided there was no point pretending and certainly none in lying. Especially to a contemporary, who like as not had been through similar games. Contemporaries were a comfort, especially if linked by the language of experience, possibly the same kind of education, with the hint of similar standards imparted somewhere and an ability to use similar words. The artist was simply another middle-class professional. Perhaps that explained the liking and made him a snob, and if it did he did not care.

‘Who’s this Edwin you mentioned?’ Richard Beaumont asked. Now fully in command of all his senses, puffing a little. Not as fit as he was himself, John thought, wondering if the competitiveness of men was so ingrained that the thought actually gave him pleasure. Well, it did give him pleasure all the same.

‘Edwin is the keeper of the coastline for the next few miles,’ he shouted back. ‘Nobody knows it better. But he would regard it as
sacrilegious for anyone to intrude. There was a team of botanists he’d almost tolerate, because they’d do what he said, and walkers and tourists he’ll doff his hat to, but if anyone interferes with the birds at this time of year, he’d kill ’em. He’s a harmless loner, always has been. Only man I know who loves crows.’

He felt defensive about Edwin, uncomfortable talking about him. He watched Richard pause, shake himself like a dog out of water, and then go on.

‘What’s strange about loving crows? I do, too. Think of the lovely chough. He’s a crow. But then I was always sentimental about birds.’

They continued as the narrow path rose into a headland and then dipped sharply into a valley, clutching safely the side of the land with a shallower incline to their right, stretching down towards rocks and the mild sea, safer in a small steep bay and suddenly far away. The wind stilled as soon as they had turned the bend. John, who loved plants and flowers better than anything, always found he breathed deeper in the valleys, where the grass grew and the shrub trees were bent sideways, but there would always be dog roses and blackberries, and unexpected migrant growths of wheat and kale, plus the souvenir of some almost prehistoric crop inedible to rabbits. Or some token of the sheep that had grazed and created the bald patches beloved by clever scavengers like the chough, who needed grazed ground and had gone for the lack of it. Speaking for himself, John could not give a toss about the bloody birds. They had the knack of looking after themselves. They had no respect. A thought niggled. The light fell on the safely distant sea and he paused, suddenly, unexpectedly, profoundly moved and happy; the thought went, and a shout came out instead.

‘Will you just look at that?’

The sea was calm, the pinks were pink, the vista huge. Richard had walked ahead a few steps and came back.

‘At what in particular?’

‘Just the bloody view. Can’t you see anything without wanting to paint it?’

‘No.’

That grin again, the eyes brilliant with self-mockery and mischief. If I were a queer, John thought, I’d fall in love with this almost ugly man, even though he might be a murderer, and I can quite see why the much younger wife would go for him. Then he wondered if this sweet eccentric had an unhealthy propensity for youth, and his bluff honesty hid perversion.

‘No, I’m afraid I look at a view, waiting for a subject to select itself. And make me want to paint it. Then I get blind to the rest. It’s a terrible affliction. Drives me mad.’

‘Ah.’

Lately John had found himself saying ‘Ah’ a lot and nodding his head like a donkey, never sure whether this was an indication of wisdom, a necessary breathing space or a way of avoiding conversation. He had lost the knack of talking: too much time spent alone. The path was narrow, room only for single file, which might explain why the walkers were so uncommunicative, and the grass growing almost to waist height on either side. On the next headland it would be stunted. He found he wanted to show the artist more of the cliffs, make him look at the view as he did, make him talk more. And then he was put off by the sight of Edwin, striding into line in the distance, avoiding the path and walking in the grass. John turned back and beckoned Richard to follow. Edwin had said he did not like the artist; could not like anyone who had somehow brought disturbance to his territory. And although Edwin was usually well mannered, it followed from his shyness and isolation that his manners were not always the same as those of other men. John did not want them to meet. Richard followed, cheerfully.

Back at the dismembered
Do not walk
sign, John led him to the
overhang, close enough for them both to see the path that led beneath, beginning in stunted grass and only visible close to the edge where the wind blew fiercest. Richard began to tremble. John grabbed hold of his arm until he sat down, abruptly. John had been trying to avoid coinciding with Edwin, but Edwin was coming closer so he sat down himself, resigned to it.

‘What did you actually see?’

‘An angel, falling from the skies and merging with the landscape. That’s what I saw.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . What happened before that?’

Edwin drew level and saw them sitting on the ground. He broke step, looked at Richard and spat on the ground near his feet. Then resumed the normal, abnormally long stride and went away, moving off the path into the long grass until he disappeared. Richard raised his blue eyes, which were no longer brilliant but misted with tears. He had not noticed the insult. John was shocked, ashamed of Edwin, but relieved that the artist had not seen.

‘I don’t
know
,’ he said. ‘I just don’t
know.
I feel I led her here. But I just don’t know.’

‘We’re getting cold. Need another warm whisky, I think.’

‘Please . . . Did I kill her to paint her? Did I?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Come on, there’s a dear, do.’ They proceeded downhill, equably, with steps fairly brisk and uneven. This path was narrow, one person at a time, so that it was difficult to protect one another. Richard had recovered strength; John went on talking.

‘So when you paint, does it matter if you’re any good at it?’

‘What?’

‘Do you care if you’re any good? Do you have to believe you have talent?’

‘No. You have to believe you can find something. See something no one else sees.’

Oh Jesus, he was a nutcase after all, but an interesting one. They were back, standing by the car. By now there were several others: the late afternoon shift of strollers of the casual sort who would walk from here to the first high point, say oooh! and come back. The site where Richard had sat and the body been thrown, or jumped, was only a few hundred yards further than that. If it had been homicide, it was a lazy method to throw her where she would be seen so soon, but not too long a distance to persuade someone to walk from the car park, and a long enough distance for a row to develop, too. And, for a suicide, enough length of time to find the courage to say, Do it now.

‘Why does that man Edwin dislike me so much?’

Ah, so he had seen.

‘You must forgive him. He’s a man with a history of rejection. Probably regards you as the bringer of trouble. He doesn’t like strangers who keep coming back, and he’d rather push people away in case they do it to him first.’

‘Was he there when the girl fell?’

It was a hopeful and frightened question.

‘No, he was far away in Cable Bay with some botanists. Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ John asked politely, interrupting his own thoughts and quite determined not to leave the man alone.

‘That would be kind. I’m staying at the Trust House. Come and have dinner with me later. You’ve been kind to me, and I’d like to know you better.’

John was embarrassed, filled with doubt, then pleasure. Why not?

‘Aren’t you going home?’

‘Not today. Tomorrow. Please come for dinner.’

‘I . . . yes. Yes, I’d like that, a lot. But I must ask you something . . . You don’t seriously think you had anything to do with her death, do you?’

Richard was tucking himself into the car, fussily, confused by his long coat. Not an ideal coat for a walker, better for someone who needed it for sitting on the ground. It was beige and grubby, uncomfortably reminiscent of a flasher’s mac, John thought, and would not have added to his credibility in this town.

‘The problem is,’ Richard said slowly, ‘is that I can’t really remember how I arrived at that spot. Or why, on that particular day, I conquered the vertigo and went down that path. I’d never been that brave before. Could I have pushed her over and then gone down to look? Maybe I hired her to pose in the long grass, naked. Maybe . . .’

‘I don’t think so,’ John said. ‘You thought she was wearing some kind of dress.’

‘Something that floated off her. And something shiny round her neck. At least I think there was.’

‘Really? There was nothing found. Nothing on your sketch.’

‘Maybe when I painted her I adorned her then. Didn’t want her so naked.’

‘Have you finished the painting?’

‘Yes, but it’s awful, a nightmare.’

John started the car. ‘Are they often like that?’ he asked, genuinely curious as to why anyone would want to persist in an activity that gave pain. A far cry from the hobbyist water-colourists from the local club who brought tea and sandwiches and complained about wasps in late summer. Richard sighed. Even his sigh was full of life.

‘Oh, yes, they’re often like that. They fight you. Painting’s like that. Would eight o’clock suit you? And I do like this car, by the way. Doesn’t need any spit and polish.’

John signalled left, on to the road, and, ah yes, he remembered the best route to that hotel, the only place in town with a reasonable reputation for food. He was suddenly hungry.

‘Yes, eight would be fine. What sort of car do you have?’

‘An old Daimler and a Mercedes. Waste of money, don’t use them much. Prefer the train.’

Oh dear, perhaps a mistake to let conversation reduce itself to simple, manly topics, like motor cars. John felt a clearly definable twinge of envy, accelerated so fast that the car lurched. Richard was entirely unmoved, sitting like a granny taken out for a rare treat, with his long coat tucked between his knees.

‘They don’t have glove compartments like this, though,’ he said, stroking it. Honour was restored.

To be fair to him, he had said he would only be gone overnight. And it would have been worse than this if she had thought he was having an affair, but at least Lilian knew it wasn’t that. Such a thought was unthinkable. As for what she had done with herself all day when he had been at work (in retrospect, the halcyon days, when she worked on the flat and soaked in a bath before he came home), it was difficult to remember, but it was harder to remember what you had done when you had been happy than it was when you were miserable. She supposed, this time last year, she would have been doing something like this. The retail therapy which followed lunch, and really she shouldn’t mind. Despite the shocks of the morning, lunch had been fun for at least the length of one and a half courses. She had almost forgotten that damn painting which had made her scream, but not quite. These meetings reminded her of one of the kindest things Richard had said when he had worried so much about the age difference between them in the very early days. When she was gobsmacked by him – a vulgar description of a neurotic state, someone had called it, and she didn’t use that phrase any longer – and he was all starry-eyed about her, and said, in an intimate moment, that at least he would leave her with ready-made friends. Namely, his children. It was not something Lilian thought of as remotely important. She was not thinking of the long-distant future and he
did not seem old to her, simply solid, good looking, such a far cry from the callow youth of spotty contemporaries, so much like the father she had always missed. She was bursting with pride in him.
Look what I’ve got! A real man!
It did not occur to her that his children would feature in her life any more than her own siblings would, and when she knew it was inevitable, she had dreaded the initial meeting so much she was sick.

There were three of them, and she need not have worried in the least. He described them as successful little brutes, although ‘little’ hardly came into the equation. They were all big and comfortingly on the stout side. A boy, Ben, thirty, a girl, Sally, married with baby, and a bit dull, to be honest, and Charles, known as Chump, the baby at twenty-six. Ben was in the City and more than comfortable, the sort of braying, good-humoured, always all right man Lilian had dated before. Sally was a physiotherapist, earnestly devoted to work and baby, the sort who would want to breastfeed in public, not naturally Lilian’s soulmate, but endlessly, painfully
caring
, while Charlie was into infotec in a big way, and doing fine. Yes, there’d been problems with them all, Richard explained, such as Ben having his session with drugs and then being far too dedicated to money and cars, Sally getting God at college, but then giving Him up for sex and fecundity, and Charlie being promiscuous. Nothing life-threatening in any of that, Richard said: I’m incredibly lucky.