The House on the Cliff (13 page)

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m not quite ready yet.”

In the days that followed I somehow didn’t find time to tell Bob about my meeting with Solveig Lindberg in Stockholm. There was a lot to do on my return, catching up with work, getting the household running again, ferrying the girls here and there. But the real reason I kept silent was that I hadn’t decided what my next step should be. Of course, keeping the meeting secret was a small matter, or at least that’s what I told myself at the time. But even so, it weighed on me, because up to that point I hadn’t, on the whole, kept secrets from him—even insignificant ones.

Nella seemed in a cheerful mood. At night we heard the Billie Holiday song coming from her room, and her voice, singing along with it. She was evidently practicing hard for
Jazz Quest
. Then, one evening toward the end of the week, after I’d got home from work, she appeared in the kitchen dressed in a tight, short skirt and a skimpy T-shirt, her face plastered with makeup.

“Mum, I need a lift. Over to Fairwater.”

“Now?” I glanced at my watch. It was already six o’clock.

“Yes.”

“But what about supper?” I said. “And homework?”

“I’ll get something to eat over there. And I’ve done my homework.”

“OK, then.” I could see no reason why she shouldn’t go out for a couple of hours. “Where shall I drop you off?”

“At my friend’s.”

“Which friend?”

“Tamsin.”

“Who’s she? I’ve never heard of her before.”

Nella sighed. “Mum, I’ve got a lot of friends, you know.” She spoke slowly, as if talking to a halfwit.

I nodded. “How will you get back?”

“I’ll call you.”

I thought for a moment of giving her my time-worn lecture about not being a taxi service, but decided not to bother.

“All right,” I said. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

We went into the hall. She picked up her bag and stood by the door while I put my coat on. Nella watched me, but she didn’t get her own jacket.

“You’re not going out like that, are you?” I said. “You’ll freeze to death.”

Sometimes, when I talk to my elder daughter, I seem unable to express myself without coming out with every cliché in the book. I could have said, “Can I pass you your jacket?” or something like that. But instead I always seem to parrot the same old hackneyed lines. I wish I could stop myself, but I don’t seem to be able to. Perhaps it’s some ancient mothering—or smothering—instinct, wired into the DNA.

“Are you sure you don’t want to borrow a cardigan?” I continued, as we went outside, got into the car, and drove off. “I think there’s one in the back.”

Nella ignored my remark. Instead, she flipped down the visor above her head and began to inspect her face in the mirror, even though it was dark and she could hardly see.

“You could put it in your bag. Just in case.”

“In case of what, Mother?” Nella always calls me “Mother” when she’s annoyed with me. “I’m getting out of the car and going into someone’s house. Then I’m going out of someone’s house and getting into the car. What do you expect to happen on the way? A biblical flood? A hurricane? And if it did, how would the cardigan help?”

I nodded, duly admonished. Nella was right, in a way. And I was right, too. I could see her point, but she wasn’t going to be able to see mine, not for a long time yet. So it was useless to pursue the issue.

We drove along in silence. I thought about mentioning the fact that her eye makeup was a little heavy, but decided against it. When we got to Fairwater she flipped the visor back into position, registered where we were, and directed me into a quiet, well-lit modern estate with neat lawns in front of each detached house.

“Park here,” she said. “And turn round.”

“Which house is it?”

“Oh, one of those.” She waved an airy hand.

“What time do you want picking up?”

“I said. I’ll call you.”

“Mind you do. Before eleven, please.” I leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.

She got out of the car and shut the door. I could see she was waiting until I drove off before going up to the house, so I turned the car round and headed slowly back down the road. As I did, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her walk up the pathway to one of the houses. When she got to the door, it opened. A figure was framed in it, illuminated by the light in the hallway. The figure of a man with curly, reddish hair. I squinted into the mirror, trying to see who it was, and then I recognized him: Emyr Griffiths.

I started as the car tire bumped the side of the road. By the time I’d steered the car back onto the road and turned the corner, the house, and the figure in the doorway, were lost to view.

As soon as I could, I parked the car on the roadside, fumbled in my bag for my mobile and called Nella. Her phone rang, but she didn’t answer it. I tried again, but she still didn’t pick up, so I texted her, telling her to phone me immediately. Then I sat waiting for a reply, getting angrier and angrier. Nella had lied to me. She’d told me she was going to see a girlfriend, but she wasn’t, she was visiting Emyr at his house. . . . If she didn’t call, I decided, I’d go back, knock on the door, and demand to know what was going on.

The mobile rang.

“What is it?” Nella picked up. She sounded irritated.

“Look,” I said, “you told me you were going to see your friend Tamsin. But you’re in that house with Emyr Griffiths. . . .” I stopped, realizing that my voice was rising.

“So? Tamsin’s here, too. We’re talking to Emyr about our recording session.” There was a pause as Nella walked away from whoever it was that was listening to the conversation and lowered her voice to a whisper. “And you can stop spying on me.”

“I’m not spying on you. I’m just trying to make sure—”

“Listen, Mum, I’m fine,” she cut in. “Calm down.” She spoke as if reassuring a lunatic. “Don’t call me again.”

“OK. But whose house is it?”

“It’s Emyr’s house.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, I’m meeting Tamsin here—at the studio. It’s in the house.”

“Fair enough. But you should have explained.” I paused. “Don’t stay out too late. When will you be back?”

“I’ll keep you informed.” With that, Nella switched off her phone.

I drove home feeling angry, wondering whether I’d overreacted. Nella hadn’t exactly lied to me, but she hadn’t told the truth either. When I got home I busied myself helping Rose with her homework and, after she’d gone to bed, sat watching TV, my mobile in my hand. It didn’t ring, but at precisely five to eleven Nella let herself into the house. As she came in through the front door, I heard a car drive off down the lane.

“Oh, so you got a lift,” I said, coming into the hall.

Nella nodded, hung up her coat, and headed down to the kitchen. I followed her.

“I’m sorry I panicked,” I said, as she cut herself a slice of bread and began to spread it with peanut butter. “But I just wish you’d explain what you’re doing, that’s all. I worry about you. Emyr . . .” I stopped, then started again. “Well, we don’t know him very well, do we?”

Nella waved the knife impatiently. “I don’t want to go into this right now, Mum. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

I didn’t respond. It was clear that discussing the issue further would only lead to an argument. So I decided to go up to bed.

“Turn out the lights when you go up, won’t you,” I said. “Dad’s away in London tonight.” Then I added, as I walked down the hallway, “And remember, Nella. I don’t like being lied to. Don’t do it again, please.”

The next day I was too busy to dwell at any length on my altercation with Nella. I had two clients to see that morning and after that Gwydion was coming in, after missing last week’s session. I wondered what kind of mood he’d be in.

At eleven o’clock precisely there was a knock on my door and he walked in. He was wearing a hooded top, jeans, and his strappy running shoes. He looked relaxed and confident.

“Welcome back,” I said as he sat down in the chair opposite.

“Thank you,” he said.

“So? How did it go?”

“Fine. Very good, actually. The director and I just seemed to click. He’s very sharp, very intuitive. We worked on the script, made some changes.” He smiled. “I’ve never really worked with the top people before. This is a new level for me.”

“Well, that’s great.” I paused. “No sleeping problems, then?”

“No.” There was a note of excitement in his voice. “The thing is, Jessica, since I last saw you, everything’s changed. You see, I’ve got to the end of the dream.”

“Oh?”

“I know what happens now.” He paused. “Can you remember where we were with it?”

“I think so.”

Clients often do this. They expect you to remember the exact details of their inner landscape at a moment’s notice, forgetting that you may have dozens of other inner landscapes currently on your books. But, for reasons to do with my own inner landscape, I did remember the main features of Gwydion’s dream, quite accurately.

“You were in the box. The dark space. You were afraid. You could hear voices above you, shouting. And then a sudden jolt.”

“That’s right. I’m down there in the dark.” As usual, he got straight down to business, closing his eyes and lowering his voice to a whisper. I noticed that he’d begun to talk in the present tense. “I’m terrified. Afraid I’m going to die. And then . . . outside the box, right outside, a splash. A loud splash, as though something heavy, like a body, has fallen into water. The box moves again, and I realize that it’s floating on the water. With me inside it.” His voice began to tremble slightly. “I begin to scream, louder and louder. Nobody comes, nobody can hear me, so I scream as hard as I can. And then, suddenly, I wake up.”

There was a silence. I didn’t break it, but my mind was racing. It was all beginning to make sense. Gwydion hadn’t been locked up in a box, as he’d described it, but had been down in the hold of a boat while some kind of altercation took place upstairs, on deck—an altercation between a man and a woman that ended with a splash: with something, or someone, jumping—or being pushed—overboard. What if the man’s voice was Evan’s? And the woman’s Elsa’s?

Gwydion opened his eyes and looked at me. There seemed to be a kind of relief written on his face, as though he had come to the end of a task, satisfied that he’d accomplished it satisfactorily.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

I batted the question back to him, as is my wont. “What do
you
think?”

He frowned. “It’s about my father, obviously. About something that happened way back, before I can remember . . . something bad . . .”

I nodded.

“I know I used to go sailing with Evan on his yacht when I was very young. I can dimly remember being taken out in it from time to time. I hated it as a kid, apparently. Still do. I suffer terribly from seasickness.”

I steered him back to the dream. “But you can’t remember this particular incident. Not consciously, anyway.”

“No, not at all. Perhaps I was very young at the time. I don’t know.”

Silence fell once again. And, once again, I began to put two and two together. Could Evan have taken Elsa out on the yacht and pushed her over the side? Left her to drown in that cold sea, while he sailed on with his young son in the hold below. But if so, why? What would have been his motive?

There was a short silence. Then I said, “Let’s go back to the woman’s voice. It definitely wasn’t your mother’s?”

“Definitely not.”

“No one you recognized?”

“No.”

I tried a different tack. “What was the voice like?”

“High. Young. She was kind of giggling at first. I suppose they must have been drinking. And then, when he turned nasty, it got higher. Panicky. She gave a loud scream before she . . . before I heard the splash.”

I nodded. That seemed to make sense as well. Mari had told me that Evan had a reputation as a drunk and a womanizer. As one of his many conquests, she’d had firsthand experience of it. And I myself had witnessed his bad temper on my brief visit to the Morgan place. What if Evan had taken Elsa out on the boat, made a pass at her, and then flown into a rage when she’d rejected his advances? Fought with her, pushed her off the boat by accident? Or, worse, done it on purpose, in a drunken fit of violence?

“Can you remember what happened after you heard the splash?”

“No. Not a thing.” Gwydion looked pensive. “I’m sure the dream is about a real event. And I’m going to find out what it was.” He paused. “I feel better already for having got to the end of it. It hasn’t come back since. I’m sleeping like a baby.”

“Good. I’m glad of that.”

“In fact,” he went on, “I feel so much better, I don’t think I need to come and see you any more.”

I was taken aback. Much as I was pleased at Gwydion’s progress—most of which, admittedly, seemed to have occurred without my help—I hadn’t expected this curt dismissal. I’d thought, now that he’d returned, that I was on the whole journey, the whole ride with him again, not just jumping on and off for one stop. Besides, my curiosity was getting the better of me. I wanted to find out the end of this story, where it went from here.

“So you feel you can cope on your own now?” I did my best to sound encouraging.

“Yes. You’ve helped me make a start. Now I think I just need to get on with my life.”

I’d been through this many times before. As a psychotherapist, the countertransference, whether positive or negative, ensures that you feel keyed in to your client’s life. You can’t imagine how they’re going to manage without you. Or, if you’re honest, the other way round. As I said earlier, being a therapist is a bit like being a parent. If you do your job well, sooner or later you get the boot. Only with clients, these people that you’ve come to know so well—perhaps better than their lovers, families, and friends will ever know them—you wave good-bye to them for good. No weekly phone calls, no holiday postcards home, no family reunions. When they walk out of your door, that’s it. Forever. It’s a bit hard to take sometimes.

Gwydion looked at me and smiled. A warm, open smile, one that I hadn’t seen before on his face. “Thanks for all your help, Jessica.”