Looking Down (25 page)

The man by his side hit him, once, a solid punch to the stomach.

Fritz handed the suitcase to the second man. A third had joined them, equally burdened and inscrutable. Lilian opened the
heavy plate-glass door with a sigh of relief. The posse pushed past her roughly to where the taxi stood outside, so that she was forced to stand, holding the door open for them. A young man stood hovering behind her, as if uncertain whether to go further.

‘How bloody rude,’ Lilian said as she wiped her feet on the carpet, checking the heels of her shoes. She looked up.

‘What are you doing down here, Richard? Bored again, are you, darling? RICHARD, RICH, RICHARD.’

John had needed company, but only of a particular kind. He had fretted away the morning, cleaning the bloody car, for God’s sake, tidying the house and hanging out washing, like a good, fussy, widowed bourgeois, conscious of the neighbours. Re-exerting control over his environment, tending his garden, deploying all the displacement activities he knew were appropriate for an indecisive coward. But when Sarah finally phoned he was pleased he had done all that because he would have been ashamed of a dirty house.

She had phoned from the train, and although John loathed the tyranny of mobile phones, this afternoon he could have kissed it. For the next hour, he imagined her here, inside his plain living room, and found it difficult. The room was so plain, he picked pansies from the garden and placed them in a vase. The overnight wind and rain had freshened everything, and he was wondering if it was that which had also cleansed his mind and made him realise that he was mortally afraid to go to the cliffs alone, and he was postponing, waiting for the strength that might occur when there was absolutely nothing
else left to do. When her taxi arrived at his house (her choice: she refused to be met), he was mightily glad to see her, and shy. That had not lasted. They looked at the picture, best in the afternoon light, and he had told her what was inside it. And about Edwin.

Now they were on the cliff path, and she was entirely the right kind of company. She was allowing him to feel superior and in charge, which indeed, in this setting, he was. It was his territory and he was leader. She did not say much; even the purpose of the expedition was ill defined, but she walked smartly and let him talk. He felt he had known her for ever. The wind had died and the sea was gloriously calm, murmuring sweet nothings. It isn’t usually like this, he told her. Her clothing amused him: the town person’s version of country clothes, immaculate cord trousers, shiny boots more suitable for pavements than muddy paths, more like slippers with laces, and a broad belt around the waist. He found time to admire her waist; if she slipped and fell, he would hold her up by the belt. The black rainproof with the red lining she wore would be useless in a storm, but all the same, she walked like an athlete with a dancer’s figure and step, and he had the uneasy feeling she could outpace him whenever she wanted. Yes, she was entirely the right kind of company. She encouraged him to explain what was on his mind by not prompting, and whatever was there tidied itself into lines.

The cliff paths seemed deserted most of the time, so that a single figure stood out, but John knew that was an illusion. There were multitudes of people, he told her, hidden in the folds of the land, lost in the size and scale of it. They hid off the path; they sat out of sight; they became sticklike insects in the distance, but they moved, they crawled, they explored, because it was there. The warmth of the last few days and the lessening of the wind brought them out. It was only the dream of the preoccupied, lone walker that no one else inhabited his domain. This was not unexplored
territory, only felt as if it was because most people kept to the paths.

John had woken that morning with a fixed idea in his head, which had taken root before he went to sleep, when he heard the wind howl round his bare, snug, book-filled house.

‘I don’t think Edwin’s ravens could remain a secret,’ he told her. ‘I don’t see how they can. Not from predators.’

He had gone to bed clutching a book on the subject of
Corvus corax.

‘What, in particular, could harm them?’

Oh why did he love giving explanations? Should have been a teacher rather than a doctor.

‘They only nest once, far earlier in the year than other birds, even other crows. Lay eggs in March, when the others are only thinking about it. They’ve a single chance of raising progeny in a year, so they build an elaborate nest and take time over it. And because they build so early, they don’t compete for territory, like other birds. They have a choice. Especially here. But when the chicks hatch and grow, they’re far more liable to attack from a larger predator, like a falcon, perhaps, because he’s in search of good protein to fuel
his
own mating and breeding.’

He paused for breath, thinking out loud.

‘Then again, the dearth of birds on these cliffs means a dearth of that kind of predator. Maybe why the ravens chose their spot.’

‘So they’re fairly safe. What else could harm them?’

‘Gapeworm, perhaps. A parasite, breeds in the throat. Asphyxiation from wire or something they’ve gathered to fortify the nest. Act of God, wind or storms, lightning strikes on the exposed edifice of a big, clumsy nest.’

The wind had yelled in the middle of the night, but he knew the degree of it. A noisy, fussy wind, which would churn the sea into protest, not gale-force and not really trying. An undestructive
wind, in a mild spring. He went on, as much for his own benefit as hers.

‘No. The danger to Edwin’s ravens would be human. The man’s a fool to himself and the birds if he believes that no one else has seen them. Edwin stays blind, most of the time, to other people on the cliffs, because he’d rather they weren’t there. He shoves them aside and ignores them. He’d kid himself that no one else went off the path, except me. It’s usually human danger. Anything rare is in danger. Rare birds in the wrong place attract collectors and murderers. There’s a market for ravens. And by now the young are ready to leave. They only need a few more days. He’s done well.’

He looked at his feet rather than the sky. In his garden, the daffodils had turned rusty and brown at the edges. Their optimism was repeated up here where the celandines exhibited bright chrome-yellow petals that shone in among the still-low grass as if they were glazed with wax, looking like flashes of gold, glistening wetly in the sun. He kept to the path to avoid them, and had a brief moment of not wanting to be anywhere else. The premonition of what he might find, further down the path, made no difference. Sarah was tiny, but she made him feel safe.

‘What about the chough? Could Richard really not have seen it?’

‘No chance, I told you. Not this century. They thrived here once, and they’ve started grazing sheep again on the headland on the other side of the port, which might provide the right kind of habitat in time. There was talk of a scheme to lure them back, but . . . no,’ he said, roughly. ‘He saw a baby raven, covered in blood.’

‘You sound as if you hate the poor ravens.’

‘I do. I hate what they did.’

‘They did what was natural to them.’

‘They savaged her. They took away something that might identify her. Yes, I hate them.’

‘And this man, Edwin, loves them.’

‘Oh, you bet, better than life. He’d kill for them.’

‘I think a passion as strong as that has to be admirable, doesn’t it?’

‘You can admire it, I don’t. Not any more. ‘

She had the medallion in her pocket, safely concealed, and as yet unmentioned. Nor had she told him anything at all about Minty. She had to
see
first. Had to know how it all fitted into the landscape and where all the connecting paths were.

‘I never asked you, Sarah. Why exactly did you come here? Are you being kind to me?’

She was pretending to be out of breath and he knew she was pretending.

‘I came because I lead a shallow life and I need to be needed, sometimes. Because of the painting. Because you inspired a bit of pity for a poor girl. Who could have been me. Because I feel responsible for the painting being stolen. And because I have a theory, and I want to see if it’s a possible theory before I explain it.’

He stopped.

‘You know who she was?’

She shook her head. ‘No, not yet. Only a theory, built on pathways between places. I’m here because I want to know what she felt like.’

‘Share the pain?’ he asked ironically.

‘Somebody must,’ she said, lightly. ‘If she’s to find her way.’

They soon reached the point where Richard had sat. John pointed out the precipitous path, winding below the overhang.

‘That’s where he went. God knows how. This white clay mud’s as slippy as ice. Come back, Sarah, come back . . .’

She was gone, sure-footed as a goat, slipping away out of sight. He waited, heart in mouth, utterly unable to follow. He was
wrong about those townie boots. She did not falter. He sat down weakly and waited.

Then she was back, wiping her hands on her cords, leaving streaks of clay.

‘I can see what tempted him,’ she said. ‘It feels like being inside the cliff. You can see the whole world.’

‘He didn’t know it was there,’ John said. ‘He has vertigo. He’d only have gone there to hide. Why aren’t you afraid of the height?’

She squatted next to him.

‘John, I’ve had two or three episodes of quite exquisite pain in my life. They made me rather nerveless. I don’t have fear. Not that kind, anyway.’

‘There’s a medical condition of not feeling pain, you know. It means the patient doesn’t know when something’s wrong. They can walk round with a nail in the foot. It’s a dangerous condition, not feeling pain.’

‘I didn’t say pain, John. I said fear.’

He stared ahead at the sea.

‘If you don’t have fear, it means you don’t care if you live or die, doesn’t it?’

‘Don’t suppose I do, much of the time, although usually I have a preference. And I did once learn to climb, like my brother. We both believed we could fly. Why did you want me here, John?’

He took a deep breath.

‘Because you’re a psychic witch. A lovable stranger. Because you’ll see things that I can’t. And because I’m afraid.’

She seemed reluctant to move, looked back down the path they had traversed so far, lost in thought, nodding her head, slowly.

‘I can see her running up here. It’s marvellous, up here.’

He felt perversely proud of it.

‘Running towards someone or running away. Running with a
purpose. She might have thrown off a coat, if it was warm like this. You could get high as a kite on a day like this. Want to yell. Feel you could fly. Want to plunge into the sea. Suicide could seem glorious on a day like this. Which is better? Jumping, or being pushed? It could have been a delirium of hope.’

‘I wish so, but she left nothing behind, Sarah. Somebody tidied her away.’

She picked up the black and red rainproof and jumped to her feet.

‘The ravens’ nest. Next. Show me.’

‘It’s two miles to Cable Bay, then a climb, and we might meet Edwin.’

‘I thought that was the whole idea.’

‘I’m terrified of Edwin,’ John said.

‘Yes, I know you are, dear, but I’m not. He’s just a man.’

‘You’re a very dear stranger,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t Richard hold on to you instead of getting himself that brittle, skinny wife?’

‘I never want to be held on to, not even by the ankles. I’m the in-between woman. The path to someone else.’

They drove to Cable Bay. It was deserted. Maybe he was wrong about the cliffs being such hiding places for people, because no one ever seemed to come here. No fresh tyre tracks. The notices about the danger of crumbling clay, the threat of more movement, repelled the cautious, but it would not have repelled everyone, even with Edwin as guardian. Not everyone kept to the paths. Children would not keep to the paths; they never did. John could see his own daughter, skipping away from him, unconscious of danger, but even the intrepid did not bring tiny, uninhibited children more than once, just as he had never again brought a dog. Here the path made an obvious deviation, and the sign directing it had all the authority of an order. Sarah did not glance at it.

‘How do I see the nest?’

He hesitated.

‘Another overhang. I crawled to it. I can’t do it again. I never actually saw it. I saw
them
, feeding on the second body. The dog. Then I was sick. You’d have to hang over to see, and I can’t do that. Do you have to?’

She looked small enough to break, with a backbone of flexible steel.

‘A nest is a home, isn’t it? I’ve always been curious about homes. Show me. I shan’t fall.’

He led her up the slope, looking all the time for Edwin. Directed her, feeling feeble and foolish. You go right to the edge, you lean over, and even then you might not see it. While he showed her the way, he went on talking, realising he was less than coherent. He was using her, and it felt wrong, even though he did not know what it was he was using her for. He was babbling.

‘The nests can be large and bulky. The parents build them in stages, starting with large twigs or small branches. They interline with smaller twigs, other stuff, earth sometimes, and line them with wool. There must have been a source of wool, to bring them here. They like to use the same nest again next year, although if they have the chance they alternate, to keep the bugs out. The nests get bigger with time, but this one’s new. God alone knows what’s in it. Old nests have treasures from other years. Stuff they brought back and hoarded. Not always useful.’

‘Bits of wool coat, or dress material, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps.’

She walked up to the edge as if she was crossing a clear road. Dropped on her knees only for the last yard. Shuffled forward on her elbows in the damp windbeaten grass, while he sat shivering. He could see nothing but her feet while he waited, twenty yards back. Waited for a long time, thinking, in a minute I’ll grab her by the legs. I’ll be able to do it, I shall, I shall.
I don’t want to be held
on to, not even by the ankles.
Then, to his relief, she reappeared, sat, facing inland, carelessly, then rolled herself into a ball, head between legs, and rolled towards him in a series of small, roly-poly somersaults until, breathless, she was at his feet, laughing and soaking wet. He felt as if his smile would crack his face.