The House on the Cliff (6 page)

Immediately, as if by magic, the gates swung apart, closing again behind me as I passed. As I drove up the path to the house my heart began to thud. The tires crunched on the gravel. There were peacocks strutting about on the front lawn. As I passed, one of them flipped up its tail, spread its feathers, and shrieked at me. It was all tremendously gothic. (Rococo, baroque, gothic? Make your mind up, Jessica.)

At the end of the drive there was one of those round lawns with a flowerbed of regimental marigolds in the middle of it. I stopped the car, turned off the engine, picked up my bag, got out and looked around, hoping the peacock wouldn’t attack me. Then a woman emerged from beneath the garlands.

“Dr. Mayhew.”

She was slim, tall, dark-haired. Her face was lined, a little weather-beaten even, but finely chiseled, with high cheekbones and a wide brow.

“Mrs. Morgan. Good to meet you.” I put out my hand.

“Arianrhod, please. And you.” She shook it firmly. I noticed that the skin on her fingers was rough, like a gardener’s.

“Where shall I park the car?”

“Oh, leave it there.” She turned and ushered me toward the doorway of the house. “Do come in.”

Inside, we walked down a dark corridor with great stone slabs on the floor, until we reached a modern, well-lit kitchen. Arianrhod sat me down at the kitchen table, pushing a pile of books, newspapers, and letters to one side to make space for me. Then she went over to the stove and put the kettle on.

“Lovely place you’ve got here,” I said to her back.

“Thanks,” she replied, not turning round. “It’s a lot of work, but I . . . we love it.”

I registered the hesitation. I wondered where the marauding lord was, and whether he would show up at some stage.

I watched Arianrhod as she moved around the kitchen, making the coffee. It was hard to guess her age. She was dressed simply but elegantly, in jeans, a navy sweater and a pair of battered brown loafers. Her hair was loosely tied back, and she brushed a strand of it away from her eyes from time to time. She moved around quickly, like a young woman, but when she turned to me, with her face under the lights, I realized she must be in her early fifties at least.

“Milk? Sugar?”

I said no to both. She brought a French press to the table, along with two mugs and a packet of biscuits, and sat down opposite me.

“I’m so grateful to you for coming. I know it’s asking a lot. But I’m so worried. Gwydion’s always had his low moods, but he’s never been as bad as this before. His doctor hasn’t been much use—he doesn’t seem very good on this kind of thing.”

“That’s OK.” I paused. “Where is he, by the way?”

“Upstairs in his bedroom. As usual. I’ll take you up in a minute.” She rummaged in her pocket and brought out a plastic pouch of tobacco. “Mind if I smoke? I’ll go outside if you want.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s your house.”

She pulled an ashtray toward her. “They’re your lungs.”

I waved away her objection, but I appreciated her asking.

She began to roll herself a cigarette. I felt envious as I watched her. I gave up smoking years ago, but I still miss it. Not so much the taste, or the sting of the nicotine as it hits your lungs, or that light-headed feeling as it courses round your brain, just the conspiratorial element of lighting up with another person over a coffee or a drink, and shooting the breeze.

Arianrhod appeared to have read my thoughts. She waved at the pouch. “Help yourself.”

“No, thanks. But I’ll have a biscuit.” She passed me the packet. They were good-quality shortbread fingers, buttery and crumbly. I took one, dipped the end in my coffee and munched away. Arianrhod continued rolling.

“So how is Gwydion today?” I said, after a while.

“Oh.” She took a lighter out of her pocket. “Much the same. But he says he’ll see you.” She lit her cigarette, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “Thank God.”

I couldn’t help breathing in with her. The tobacco smelled warm, delicious, with just a hint of that acridity that would later turn the air in the room sour.

“You know, I really can’t take much more,” she added. Blue smoke swirled around her dark head and she waved it away with a delicate hand. Then she took another puff and blew out again. More smoke, this time blue-gray, to match her eyes. It was all rather beautiful, I thought. Though dangerous to the health, obviously.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” I said. “It’s hard work being with someone who’s having a . . . a little bit of a wobble.”

She gave a short laugh, almost despite herself. “So that’s what you doctors call it, is it?”

“I’m not a doctor. Not a medical one, anyway.”

“Oh.” She sighed, took another drag of her cigarette and rested it on the rim of the ashtray. “Well, do you mind if I call you Dr. Mayhew, anyway? It makes me feel secure.”

I was touched. “Call me whatever you want,” I said. “Within reason.”

She laughed again. I sensed that my presence was beginning to cheer her up. I began to feel better, to think that my visit might possibly be turn out to be useful, not only to Gwydion, but to his mother as well.

There was a long silence. The cigarette was still burning in the ashtray, the smoke emanating from it thin and pungent. When it finally went out, Arianrhod didn’t bother to relight it. Instead she rose to her feet, as though she’d suddenly come to a decision.

“Come on,” she said. “Bring your coffee, if you like. I’ll take you up now.”

Arianrhod led me upstairs, through narrow corridors with beamed ceilings and uneven floors, until we came to the door of Gwydion’s room. She knocked, but there was no reply, so she opened it gently.

“Gwydi? Dr. Mayhew’s here to see you.”

I peered into the room over her shoulder. It was dark, the curtains drawn. I could just make out a bed beside the window.

“She’d like to talk to you.”

There was an almost inaudible groan from the bed. Arianrhod opened the door wider, stepped aside, and gave me a little push into the room.

“Good luck,” she whispered. Then she closed the door behind me and left.

I stood by the door for a moment, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I wasn’t sure what to do. So I stayed there and said, in what I hoped was a reassuring voice, “Gwydion, it’s me, Jessica. Would you mind if I came over and sat beside you for a while?”

There was another groan that I took to be assent. I walked quietly over to the bedside, drew up a low armchair, and sat down.

Gwydion was lying in bed with his eyes closed. He was unshaven and his hair was greasy. His complexion looked sallow, unhealthy. Underneath the bedclothes I could see that he was wearing a sweater, a scarf, a dressing gown, and pajamas. The room was rather draughty—it was that kind of house—but it certainly wasn’t cold. I wondered if he often overdressed like this, or whether this was something new. The button phobia flashed through my mind, but I couldn’t make anything of it.

There was a long silence. Interminable. I looked around the room. It had obviously been Gwydion’s since boyhood. Ranged around the shelves on the walls were piles of comics, a Game Boy, a chess set. Propped in a corner was an ancient cricket bat, taped up along the bottom where the wood had cracked. Sitting on a chest of drawers was a sheep’s skull and a homemade catapult. It all looked idyllic, reminiscent of the kind of childhood you read about in books, but seldom actually encounter, where tousle-haired boys make dens in the woods, and the worst that can happen is a scraped knee after climbing a tree, or a chill after playing out in the rain: healthy, happy, carefree. Except that I knew from looking at the figure lying in the bed that it wasn’t. Or if it was, that something had gone very wrong along the way.

“I’ve had the dream again.” I jumped as Gwydion spoke. He still had his eyes closed.

“Yes?” I said. I tried to sound encouraging, without being pushy.

Silence fell once again.

“This time there were voices.” Gwydion spoke in a low whisper.

“Voices?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “I’m in the box again,” he went on. His voice was a monotone. “It’s dark. I can’t see anything, but I can hear . . .” He stopped. He appeared to be making a tremendous effort to remember something. “Two voices . . . a man’s and a woman’s . . .”

He stopped talking and turned his face to the wall.

We sat there in silence for a while. Then I said, “Gwydion. Would you mind opening your eyes for a moment and looking at me?”

I don’t know what made me say that. Irritation, probably, that he hadn’t had the manners to open his eyes, say hello, register my presence. But the minute I’d spoken, I regretted it. There’d been a distinct note of impatience in my voice, which I hadn’t managed to disguise.

He turned over, his back to me.

My irritation increased. I started to wonder whether he was having me on, whether this was all some absurd game he was playing. Of course, I should have known better: people struggling with mental illness do play games, run rings around their therapists and everyone else; it’s part of the illness. So if Gwydion was playacting, there was probably a good reason for it. And if he wasn’t, I was being unkind. Whatever the case, in my impatience I’d risked losing my chance to find out what that reason might be.

“I’m sorry, Gwydion.” I paused. “I shouldn’t have said that. It doesn’t matter whether you look at me or not. Just carry on talking. I’m listening.”

But Gwydion remained facing the wall, saying nothing.

He went on saying nothing for the next half hour, and I went on kicking myself inwardly for interrupting him in mid-flow. But eventually my impatience began to leave me, and instead a deep sadness came over me. Here was this young man, in his prime, lying in a darkened room, letting his life slip slowly by, unable to grasp it, to savor it. And no one seemed to be able to help him, to reach him, least of all me.

I looked over at the window, and saw that, behind the curtains, the sun had come out. A tiny ray of sunlight was beginning to creep along the window ledge. I thought of a fragment of poetry that I knew, one that my mother had taught me as a child.

I remember, I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn . . .

With a start I realized that, in my reverie, I’d spoken aloud. Then I heard Gwydion’s voice, finishing the verse.

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day,

But now I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

As he whispered the words, tears filled my eyes. Tears for Gwydion in his anguish, and for something else as well: for the sudden realization that my mother had never taught me the last two lines of the verse—hoping to shield me perhaps from the pain of growing up, from the ultimate powerlessness of her love, and keep me a while longer in the safety of childhood. She’d done her best for me in those early years, I realized now. Like most mothers. Like Arianrhod, most probably. And if it hadn’t been good enough, well, that was the world’s fault, and growing up’s fault, not hers.

“About the dream, Gwydion.” I realized I was whispering, to keep the urgency out of my voice. “Was it exactly the same—or was there something else? Some little detail, perhaps, however small, that might help us to find out what’s wrong . . . what you’re running from?”

Gwydion remained facing the wall, motionless.

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

He shook his head, but he didn’t turn round.

I felt suddenly exhausted. I needed to get out of the dark, airless room and back into the daylight.

“Gwydion. I think I’m going to go now. Unless you want me to stay.”

He shook his head again.

“You’ve got my phone number. You can call me any time you want. Or . . .” I hesitated a moment, then said, rather recklessly, “or I can come back to see you here.”

There was no response, so I got up and walked over to the door. I stood there for a moment, waiting to see if he would speak to me before I left. But he didn’t, so I opened it and walked out into the corridor, closing it quietly behind me.

5

When I went downstairs I found Arianrhod in the kitchen. She asked how I’d got on, and I told her that Gwydion hadn’t said much, except to tell me about a dream he’d been having. She seemed disappointed, and asked me if I could possibly stay the night and talk to him again in the morning. I refused, saying that I had to get home, which was true enough: Bob would be working late, and I’d need to organize the girls’ evening, and catch up on some papers myself before work tomorrow. At that, she looked even more downcast, and then suggested I might like a walk around the grounds before I left, to stretch my legs before the drive home. I agreed, even though I knew that what she really wanted was a chance to discuss Gwydion further with me, and I was somewhat reluctant to do so.

We went into the hall to get our coats—the weather had cleared, but there was still a nip in the air—and were just about to set off when the lord of the manor himself appeared. He drove up in a Range Rover, slammed on the brakes, jumped out, and opened the back to let out two large liver-spotted dogs.

“Who the hell’s parked their bloody car in the—?” he burst out. Then, seeing me, he stopped.

He was a well-built, good-looking man in his late fifties or so, with exactly the same luminous green eyes as his son.

“Evan. This is Dr. Mayhew.” Arianrhod seemed unsurprised by his outburst. “Dr. Mayhew, my husband, Evan Morgan.”

I nodded at him.

He cleared his throat and thrust a hand out toward me. “How d’you do.”

We shook hands briefly. He looked remarkably youthful, I noticed, and remarkably like Gwydion, except for the lines on his forehead and temples, his jutting cheekbones and the lilac shadows under his eyes. But there was nothing of Gwydion’s insecurity in his demeanor.