The Edge of the Fall (59 page)

So he started to play the game again. Just in case. He wasn't going back to where he had been! But this time, he played it harder. He said –
how close can I get to death?
Because if you got to touch it, really touch it, and then pulled yourself back, you'd have luck that would keep you alive for ever.

So, that first time, he held his breath for longer than he ever had, nearly three minutes. He could feel his eyes popping out, his face turning blue. And he still did it! Then he strode past Petherlet, trying to hide at the back of the dining room, knowing that he wouldn't be caught any more! He did something new every day – held his breath, put his hand over his nose, tried to sneeze with his eyes open (Mr Bills had said you immediately died if you did that). Sometimes, when he felt safe, he did easier things, like pull out whole clumps of hair or try to tease up as much of a fingernail as he could. Really, though, all that could grow dull. He wanted more, something that would be truly exciting. But the school area was tediously safe. No river to throw himself in or, which would be even better, a bridge he could suspend himself from, feel the wind pull through his hair before he scrambled up again, still alive.

So he had to do it at Stoneythorpe. There was a deep pond at the back of the house, under an overhanging willow. It was a spot that Celia liked to sit in, so he had to be careful to go there when she was occupied in the house. He would hang out on the tree, over the pond, his pockets full of stones, weighted down so that if he fell in, he'd truly drown. He did it every morning, when Celia was off riding horses with Tom or whatever it was she did. He lay on the thin branch, crept further, felt it bend, made his bargain that no one would hit him again. Funny, how he'd met Louisa when he'd been doing precisely that.

And yet, he knew, it only really mattered if he was at school at the
time
. He had the chance only once – on a school geography trip to a great bridge near Bristol. Then, while all the rest had been sketching out the struts, with Mr Wilton shouting against
the wind, he'd crept away, to the cliffs themselves. Mr Wilton hadn't noticed, nor the other master and the teacher-pleasers like Lucas, the type to say, ‘Look, sir, de Witt is up there!' – they were deep in drawing. He walked up on to the bridge, stared down at the swirling river below. He crawled out between the gaps in the iron railings, sat on the side, dangled his feet over the edge. If he pitched himself forward just an inch, then he'd nearly be in. Two inches and he'd fall. And he doubted he could live, not if he fell from such a height. He shuffled forwards a quarter inch or so. He felt the air slash against his face. He looked down.
Come to me!
said the water.
Come!
He was close to death, closer than he'd ever been. And then he heard Mr Wilton shouting.

‘De Witt! What the hell are you doing? Get here immediately.' The teacher was standing at the edge of the bridge. ‘Now!' He was shouting commands but Arthur heard the fear in his voice. He turned, put out a hand to the water.

‘Don't do that!' Wilton shouted. ‘Get back.'

The other boys were watching now. Petherlet looked the sickest of all.
Don't you care for me, you weakling
, Arthur wanted to shout. Instead he waved at Mr Wilton. He looked down at the water, how close to it he was. Just a tiny movement forwards would be all it took. He would
really
know. He held his body, paused for a second, then moved back. He pulled himself under the iron railings, on to the bridge. Then, behind Mr Wilton, the boys began to clap, the applause rolling up around them. He knew that they were doing it because they were relieved, they'd really thought he might die, it was the release of panic. But in his mind, it was something else – it was that hanging so far out on the bridge, nearly touching the force of the water, had made him see something they would never see. He'd seen God.

He stopped playing the game after he finished school. No need. In the adult world, no one put you in a corner, chased you down the corridor. You could find another corridor to walk down, another place to be. If he ever saw the look in another man's eyes of
I know you are weak
he would leave the place as quick as he could. The old game was for children.

But then it began again. With Louisa.

When the men he knew talked about marriage, they said the younger the better. Then they'll listen to you. Louisa was perfect. And even more so when it came to his family. Through her, he'd get their respect. His parents and Celia had spent so much time flurrying around, preparing for her, and then when she arrived they ignored her. She came to them, but she fell in love with him. She needed him, more than anyone else. It was typical of his parents, he thought, to fuss over someone when you didn't actually know them, then leave them alone when you met them.
I was doing her a favour!
he wanted to say.
Didn't you see?

They never saw. You would have thought, he reflected, that when he came home from Paris after the war ended, having lost Michael, they might treasure him, Arthur. No. He would always be the wrong one. He could tell by the way his mother looked at him. He'd done well in Paris, made money with his business importing goods for shops. But they didn't care. Michael had given himself for his country, which was all that mattered. They let Arthur live at Stoneythorpe, gave him his room. But they didn't love him.

He'd go back to Paris, he thought at the time, after a year. Once things had calmed down over there and he could do business again. It was a shame to have had to rush back to England, leaving everything behind. But discretion was the better part of valour, really it was. Arthur just thought he'd wait. Then he'd met Louisa.

No one but him saw what he did for her. But they would, he thought, once he took her away and they came back married. They'd be pleased with him, keeping her money in the family. Of course, as it turned out, they weren't pleased with him taking Louisa away, not at all, they sent letters demanding he bring her back, calling him all sorts of names. So then he knew that he had to keep her with him – he had to make her marry him. They didn't love him – but they might if he was with her.

And yet, he hadn't done things right for her. He'd meant to, really he had. But he found her annoying, he was ashamed to say, irritating, like a child. Those people who said
the younger the better
were wrong. In Paris, he'd been used to sophisticated women, or at least grown ones who could choose their own gown, hold a conversation, even make themselves a cup of tea in his cold rooms. Louisa could do nothing. She wanted his advice on the tiniest thing – she needed him, always needed him. He couldn't count the times he'd had to come down to help her search in her room for a ribbon or a pencil or some other trivial thing. She fussed over what she ate, what she wore, even what she said. She made friends with the most idiotic of people. The infatuation with Munsden had been the last straw – and that cretinous mermaid costume . . . that's when he knew she wasn't
like
other people. He'd have to get her away.

He was in over his head, he knew that. It was too late to go back, say he'd made a mistake, here is Louisa, let's return to how we were before. They married the day they were leaving London, two men from the club as witnesses, and he paid the minister too much money for the convenience. He took her for lunch afterwards and he felt the roof closing in. He was in a corridor, being chased, and he couldn't get out and find a different one. So he began to play the game again. If he got close to death, then he'd find an answer. Something would come and make things clear. He'd be free.

In Weymouth, in the gambling house he'd found near the station, he'd started holding his breath again. He wasn't as good at it as he'd been at school – too much smoking, he supposed. Sometimes he could only manage two minutes before he felt like his whole face was blue. He tried walking down by the cliffs, but they were not high. And drinking didn't help, nor did smoking. To play the game, you had to almost die, running out of breath or falling. Not just because you'd smoked too much.

He liked Louisa less and less. The very sound of her breathing annoyed him. Still she couldn't do a thing for herself, and he found himself saying, ‘I'm not your father!'

He couldn't get away from her. He'd hoped that leaving London might help, give both of them a new life. Instead, it only reminded him of the liberty he'd had before, the ease.

He wandered around Weymouth, hearing the calls of the prostitutes.
But it wasn't the same as in Paris, they were all money-grubbing, cared only about exactly how much, what you wanted to do, how long – you'd never get a full hour. His own girl from back then was probably some Normandy housewife now, with children, married to a farmer. He tried to see her in his mind, couldn't, not her face, not even her eyes.

No matter how many times he balanced himself on the edge of the port, dangling his legs over the side, nothing changed. He would go back and there would be Louisa in his rooms, sleeping with her mouth open. The game wasn't working.

Then, walking through Weymouth in the second week they were there, he saw a young girl take the arm of a man. He turned to her, about to shake her off. Then the man saw her face. He paused, nodded, let her take him forward. Arthur supposed she must be beautiful. What was it Stendhal had said, about beauty being the promise of happiness? The man must have seen freedom in her, liberty like Arthur had found that first time in Paris.

And then he understood. He would have to play the game with Louisa. Both of them were stuck, stranded in the same corner. If he wanted to be free, it was a case of freeing them both. He had to play it with
her
.

He explained it to her – taking her out to dinner, which always softened her up a bit – telling her that it was something he did to feel spiritual. Of course he didn't say it was to get out of being trapped.

‘I don't understand,' she said. ‘Shouldn't we pray to feel closer to God?'

‘You'll understand once we do it,' he said. ‘I promise.'

Still she didn't agree. So he had to find a new way to phrase it. If she loved him, she would do it with him. It would bring them closer! And telling her then, he really believed that it would, that somehow, if they both felt it, he would love her more, give her the affection she deserved. So that night he helped her up on to the harbour edge, and they balanced, looking down.

‘I can't bear it!' she said. ‘I'm cold!'

‘I'll hold you,' he said. ‘I will.'

She was weeping when he brought her down, clutching him. ‘It's too dreadful!' she said. ‘Promise me you won't do this again.'

He agreed, he had to of course. She was a stubborn girl. He understood that he'd have to make a longer campaign, do one or two risks, less frequently. Then he'd succeed. He did it himself, standing on the bridges, jumping in front of the traffic. But still, nothing changed. When they'd married, they had been bound together for life. She threw her arms around him, telling him how much she loved him. It took everything in him not to shrink back. He told himself to smile. Instead his eyes filled with poor bullied Petherlet and his tiny, fearful face. Even he was probably happier than Arthur now. Perhaps the game would help.

And then she told him the news. She put her hands on his, her face glowing. Are you not pleased, husband? It is a new start for us.'

He felt her hands. ‘Of course. Of course I am pleased.'

‘We will keep it just for us, at the moment. As it is so early. In a few months we can tell everyone. Your family will be pleased.'

‘Oh, of course. They will.'

‘Are you not proud of me, husband?'

He put his arm around her, held her close. His heart spread with clouds. They travelled to London and passed a week together, then took a place by the sea in Margate. Every day, the storm in him mounted. He knew he had to play the game, get closer to God. He decided he would make the day perfect. He told her he loved her, took her out for an expensive dinner, put his arm around her. He gave her flowers. Then the next day he took her to the cliffs. ‘You will never see anywhere so beautiful,' he said. ‘Never.'

He took her out to the cliff edge. ‘Look down,' he said. ‘Isn't it beautiful? Don't worry. I'll hold you.'

She was afraid, he knew it. He could feel her trembling. ‘You can trust me,' he said. ‘I'll look after you.'

‘I want to go back,' she said.

He pretended not to hear her.

‘Darling,' she began. But she couldn't finish. She was trembling so much.

‘See,' he said in her ear, his voice low. ‘Regard the beauties of nature.'

‘But—'

‘The world is ours,' he said, as muffled as the sound of a shell held against her ear. ‘We could hold it in our hands.'

He felt her body, the flesh and blood of her through her ugly woollen gown. He looked down at the sea, churning, the drop of the cliffs. It was bigger than them, greater than anyone. It overwhelmed everything, everyone. It had its own rules.

He threw back his head, closed his eyes. And then, for the first time in years, the girl in Paris came truly into his head. It was her, really her, not the half versions of her he'd found before. This time, she spoke, looked at him, her eyes danced. She was truly there! She whispered, close in his ear, ‘
Quest ce que tu cherches?
'

‘I don't know,' he whispered back. ‘
Liberié
. Freedom.'

‘Well, then,' she said, a laugh in her voice. ‘Be free.' He was young again, she was holding his hand on that first night in Paris. ‘Do the thing that makes you free.'

‘I can't,' he said. ‘I can't.'

‘Do it!' Her accent was entrancing, her eyelashes brushing softly on her cheek. ‘But quickly. You only have one chance to live.'