The House on the Cliff (33 page)

A nurse approached my bed. I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I didn’t want any more medication. I was getting fed up with going through the day, and the night, in a fog.

“Someone to see you,” she said. I assumed it would be Bob, who’d been visiting me every day, usually with the girls in tow, but when I opened them, I saw Mari standing at the end of the bed.

“Hi,” I said. I waved toward a chair beside the bed. “Take a pew.”

Mari came over and enveloped me in a hug.

“How are you,
caridad
? I wanted to come in before, but Bob said you weren’t up to it.” She looked slightly put out.

“He’s just fussing. I’m fine, really. I’ll be out of here soon, I think.”

She sat down on the chair, fished in her bag, and brought out a small box of chocolates, wrapped up in gold paper and yellow ribbon, with a yellow paper flower on the top.

“Oh.” I reached over and took the box. “Thanks.”

“Artisan, darling,” she said, a note of self-mockery in her voice. “Arm and a leg.”

I slipped the ribbon off the box, opened it, and took a chocolate. I couldn’t be bothered to choose which one. Then I handed it to her.

She studied the guide carefully and chose her chocolate. It was a white one, with tiny frosted rose on the top.

We sat in silence for a moment, sucking our chocolates. I was enjoying mine, although it was making me feel slightly queasy.

“So.” She tilted her head on one side as she spoke. I realized that, for once, she was choosing her words carefully, trying her best to be tactful. “You’ve been in the wars, then, I hear.”

“Mmm.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I suppose so.” I swallowed the last of my chocolate. “I’ve been a bit of an idiot, to tell the truth. I didn’t know Arianrhod Morgan was such a . . .” I hesitated for a moment, realizing that I didn’t actually want to discuss all this. It brought back frightening memories, memories that gave me crazy dreams at night, nightmares about being blind and deaf and dumb, and floating upside down in water, and watching my fingers falling off my hands, and being unable to breathe.

I stopped for a moment, unwilling to pursue the conversation. Mari offered me another chocolate, but I refused.

“What happened to her, anyway?” she asked, taking another one herself.

“She drowned. The police found . . .” I paused, unable to continue.

“The body?” Mari spoke in a low tone, registering my hesitation.

“It was washed up on the beach, the next cove round from the bay.” I paused. “She couldn’t have swum around there, the police said. It was too far. And the water was so cold, she’d probably have . . . succumbed . . . quite quickly.”

For some reason, I couldn’t say the word “died.” “Succumbed” wasn’t a bad alternative, though. Ernest Jones used it whenever one of his patients kicked the bucket as a result of his ministrations. One of Freud’s friends “succumbed” when he recommended extra-large doses of cocaine to buck him up. I’d never heard it used to describe drowning, but it was a useful euphemism in general, I thought. I might employ it more in future.

Mari sucked her chocolate pensively, drawing in her cheeks. “Well, thank God for that,” she said. “Bloody psychopath. She could have . . .” She was about to say more, but checked herself, noticing the look on my face.

There was a short silence, and then she asked, “What happens now?”

“Well, it’s a question of picking up the pieces, I suppose.” I paused. “All the charges against Evan Morgan have been dropped. And Bob’s been in touch with the girl’s mother, Solveig Lindberg, to tell her what happened. You see, when . . .” I petered out again, lost for words. “When I was at the jetty with Arianrhod, she told me that she’d . . . well, she confessed that Elsa’s death was her fault.”

My voice shook a little as I spoke. Mari noticed and controlled her curiosity, sensing that I wasn’t ready to go into details.

“How did the girl’s mother take the news?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Solveig? She was very emotional, apparently. But it’s laid the whole thing to rest for her. After all these years.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Not yet. I will do, though. And Bob says she’s going to come over and visit when I get out.”

Mari reached over and squeezed my hand.

“Well, at least something good has come out of all this, then,” she said. “And Gwydion? Bob told me he’d come to your rescue at the beach.”

I hesitated a moment. “Yes. He must have known I’d go down to see Arianrhod, after what he’d told me. And that she wouldn’t . . . respond very well. He was devoted to her, but I suppose he realized there are limits.” I paused. “He’d grown quite attached to me, you see.”

There was a short silence, and I wondered whether Mari had guessed there’d been something between us.

“How’s he coping now?” she said, eventually.

I didn’t know a great deal about Gwydion’s state of mind. For obvious reasons, I’d avoided bringing up the subject with Bob. I’d also avoided the subject of Evan, for similar reasons. But Bob was helping Evan in the aftermath of the case, and had reported that Evan had been very attentive toward Gwydion after his mother’s death. As a result, Gwydion was making a remarkable recovery.

“Pretty well, I think, considering,” I replied. “He’s out of The Grange, so I hear. And Evan’s been coaching him for a new TV part he’s got coming up. There’s been a bit of a rapprochement there, I think.”

I smiled, and Mari smiled back. Then I sighed and laid my head back on the pillow, suddenly tired.

“There are so many bits to this puzzle,” I said. “The trouble is, I can’t think straight at the moment.”

“You don’t need to, Jess.” Mari’s voice was unusually gentle. “Everything’s fine. Just concentrate on getting well.”

There was another lull in the conversation. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open, but I did my best to hide it. “Another chocolate?”

Mari must have noticed my fatigue. “No, no. They’re for you. And anyway, I’d better be going.” She got up. “We can talk more another time.”

I would have liked her to stay longer, but I felt too weak to argue. So she kissed me good-bye, and I watched as she walked out of the room, giving me an airy wave as she left.

It was nice of her to stop by, I thought. I closed my eyes and began to drift into sleep.

Moments later, I opened them to find Bob standing over me.

I glanced at the clock. Two hours had passed. This was always happening, it seemed. I had no recollection of being asleep, of dreaming, of time going by. Great chunks of the day went missing, got lost. It was getting better, day by day—but it was a slow process and I was impatient to get back my strength, and beginning to wonder if I ever would.

He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. Then he sat down on the bed.

“You’d better not let the nurses see you doing that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Germs.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He reached over and took my hand. “You’re my wife, aren’t you. I can do what I like with you.”

I laughed, and so did he.

We’d made up our quarrel, more or less. We hadn’t discussed the details—that was still to come—but he’d said that once I got out of hospital he wanted us to start afresh. The whole episode had made him realize how much he loved me, how much he wanted our marriage to work. To be honest, I wasn’t altogether sure that I felt the same, though I didn’t say so; I was waiting until my brain began to function more normally before making any decisions.

In actual fact I was feeling somewhat stunned at the repercussions of Bob’s brief fling a while back. Because I’d unconsciously projected my anger at Bob onto Evan, as the cheating husband, I’d failed to pick up on the fact that Arianrhod was trying to frame Evan for murder, let alone that she was the murderer herself. I’d also let her introduce a doubt in my mind as to Bob’s involvement with the case. Wanting to allay my suspicions, I’d allowed myself to be lured down to the beach. As a result, I’d very nearly lost my life. I’d also come close to playing a part in a potential miscarriage of justice, by giving evidence at Evan Morgan’s hearing. And all because I’d taken my eye off the ball, let Bob’s passing indiscretion cloud my judgment.

I’m not a moralist where marital infidelity is concerned. I’ve heard enough lurid stories about it in my consulting rooms to understand that human beings are not very good at monogamy, and mostly struggle to abide by what some would see as an oppressive cultural norm. I’m generally sympathetic, not only to those who are cheated, but to those who do the cheating, too; how people manage, or fail to manage, their sexual drives is a subject of enormous complexity and contradiction, as Freud pointed out all those years ago; and nothing much has changed since his day. Indeed, I’m always puzzled by my younger clients, who may talk about sex in an offhand, vulgar way, yet are often very judgmental when it comes to the issue of infidelity in a long-term relationship.

So it was all the more surprising that, when the problem came into my own life, I should have reacted the way I did. And, worse, been so blind to what I was doing. I should, at least, have talked the situation over with a colleague, contacted my supervisor, got some perspective on what I was doing. Instead, I’d carried on regardless, thinking I was managing my feelings of jealousy and anger in an admirably calm, sensible manner. Sometimes I think psychotherapists have less, rather than more, insight into their own behavior than other people; we get cocky, we think we’re one step ahead, that we know our own weaknesses, and can manage them; and that’s fatal. That’s the biggest self-delusion of all. I’d learned something from my ordeal, the hard way. In future, I’d have to be more careful. More humble . . .

Which still didn’t answer the question: What about me and Bob? His brief fling had been far from “insignificant,” as he’d described it. It had shaken up both our lives, in ways that neither of us could have foreseen. Did it matter now? Well, I’d got my own back, or at least had the chance to, with Gwydion. If Mari’s view of marriage as a power struggle was right—and, after witnessing what had happened in the Morgan family I was beginning to agree with her assessment—some equilibrium had been achieved. But did I trust Bob now? I wasn’t sure. His instincts about Evan had been right, mine had been wrong. But he’d used confidential information he’d got from me to further his career. He’d glossed over certain aspects of his past. That, perhaps, had done more lasting damage to our marriage than the affair with the translator. . . .

“Jess, are you OK?” Bob was speaking to me.

I realized I’d drifted off again, lost in my own thoughts.

“How are the girls?” I said, making an effort to connect with him again.

“Fine. They made you some choc-chip cookies. Here.” Bob waved toward a plastic container by the television table.

“How sweet of them. I’ll have one later, with my tea.” I paused. “What about what’s his name?”

Bob looked puzzled.

“You know. Nella’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, Gareth. Well, he appeared again today. They seem to be spending a lot of time together. Playing the guitar and singing and stuff.” He paused. “He seems like a decent enough chap.”

He shrugged, and I realized he’d come round to Nella’s new suitor.

“And Rose? What’s she up to?”

“She’s fine. She’s decided she wants a companion for Miffy.”

“Who?”

“The rabbit.”

“Oh.”

I felt distressed that I’d forgotten the name of the rabbit, as well as Nella’s boyfriend.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “We’re all managing fine for the time being. But we need you back soon, Jess. I need you.” A look of anguish came over his face. “I never realized how much, until now.”

He reached out and took my hand. I was surprised. Bob’s not usually a one for passionate declarations. He seemed surprised, too, and a little embarrassed.

“Oh,” he said, letting go of my hand. “I nearly forgot. Something came for you today, in the post.”

He brought out a small package and handed it over. I looked at the printed label on the front. It had come from an Internet site selling antique jewelry, direct to my address. It was carefully wrapped, so it took a while to open. In fact halfway through I gave up, and Bob had to finish the job for me.

“Look,” he said, handing me a small box. There was no greeting card with it. I lifted the lid and inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a necklace. I held it up.

It was a slim silver chain dotted with tiny gray gemstones. On the end of it was an antique pendant made of mother-of-pearl. The pendant was round and exquisitely carved, with the scene of an old-fashioned ship on a wavy sea, each billowing sail, the crest of each wave, intricately worked into the smooth shell.

I looked more closely, holding the pendant up to the light. The mother-of-pearl was streaked and translucent, like fog bathing the ship in an eerie glow, but in the middle of it, over the mast, the sun shone from behind a carved cloud, through four tiny holes.

It was then I realized what it was.

I leaned my head forward and Bob put the pendant around my neck.

“It’s pretty,” he said. “Who’s it from?”

“Oh. Just an ex-client of mine,” I replied. I looked down and saw the little ship gleam in the light. “A man who used to be scared of buttons.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After studying philosophy in college,
CHARLOTTE WILLIAMS
went on to work as an arts journalist, writing for newspapers and magazines, and making documentaries for the BBC. She now works in radio drama, writing original plays and adaptations.

WWW.CHARLOTTEWILLIAMSWRITER.WORDPRESS.COM

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COPYRIGHT

Cover design by Andrea Cardenas

Cover photographs: © Michael Trevillion / Trevillion Images (house); Jill Battaglia / Trevillion Images (landscape)

Reprinted with permission from SLACK Incorporated: Loftus, E. F., and Pickrell, J.E., The Formation of False Memories,
Psychiatric Annals
. 1995; 25: 720-725.