The House on the Cliff (11 page)

Sometimes, in these gardening situations, you just have to tell yourself to carry on. Bust through the feeling of helplessness, hopelessness. Go down the “Yes, we can” route. Ignore the “No, we can’t” option, even if that’s the more realistic response. So I did. I put on my gardening boots, donned my scruffiest jumper, arming myself with a hacksaw, shears, and a penknife, and went out.

For two hours I sawed, and chopped, and clipped, and heaped, and piled, and dragged, and tidied, and as I did, some phrases from the Lacan paper kept coming into my head:

Life is something which goes, as we say in French, “à la dérive.” Life goes down the river, from time to time touching a bank; staying for a while here and there, without understanding anything . . . and it is the principle of analysis that nobody understands anything of what happens.

When I’d finished I cleared away some dry, dead wood and built a small bonfire at the end of the garden, by the compost heap. I set light to it and watched it burn. It caught fire quickly and began to crackle. As I watched the flames leap up, and the smoke curl into the sky, a sudden realization came to me. The photograph of Evan had been sent to me as a plea to find out what had really happened, and whoever it was from, I felt impelled to accede to its request.

It began to rain. I poked away more vigorously, but the flames died and the bonfire began to smoke. I heard a crack of thunder in the distance. I looked up and saw that the sky had gone dark.

Nobody understands anything of what happens.

As the downpour gathered momentum, I picked up my tools and ran for cover, back into the house.

8

The air hostess came past—cabin attendant, I think they’re called nowadays—and I ordered another gin and tonic. I like to drink when I fly. Cramming yourself into a metal tube hurtling through the sky begins to seem like tremendous fun, which it never does when you’re sober. I also like to take drugs. Beta-blockers, Temazepam, that kind of thing. I’d take cocaine, too, if it wasn’t illegal. For me, it’s all part of the holiday. I know I’m a respectable psychotherapist and mother of two, but as far as I’m concerned, when I step onto a plane I leave all that behind. It’s something to do with being up in the clouds, I think, unable to lift a finger to help anyone, however dire the circumstances. It’s an intoxicating feeling, even without chemical enhancement.

I took a hefty swig of the G&T, put my head back, and closed my eyes, listening to the dull roar of the engine, the low chatter of the passengers, and the soothing clink of the ice cubes in my drink. I gave a sigh of satisfaction. I was on my way to a beautiful city I’d never seen before. I was going to stay in a comfortable hotel overlooking the sea. There was no one with me, no husband, no children. I had no responsibilities. I was out and about in the world again, alone.

After I’d spoken to Mari on the phone, and found out that the girl who’d drowned in the bay was in fact the Morgans’ au pair, I’d felt a compulsion to investigate further. In fact it had become something of an obsession. I knew that, to some degree, I had my own agenda here, that I was doubtless projecting my anger at Bob onto Evan, the philanderer par excellence. However, I was genuinely moved by Gwydion’s story. I wanted to help him, and time was moving on: he was due to start rehearsals in only a few weeks, and unless he could get the insomnia and the button phobia under control before that, he might well struggle to cope. Moreover, I was convinced that the dream held the key to his problem. I’d come to believe that the jolt, as well as representing his desire to heal the rift between his parents, and thus within himself, might actually be a memory of a real, traumatic event that had occurred in his childhood—an accident, perhaps, that had been covered up, and lied about, by Evan.

I’d searched the Internet for information on the accident, but found nothing, so I’d gone to the local-history section of the library to see if there had been any reports in the newspapers at the time. Eventually, after scrolling through endless rolls of microfiche, I’d found a brief mention in the
Western Mail
, giving a short description of the incident: that a couple walking their dog had found a young woman’s body on the beach, that the police had established she was Elsa Lindberg, a nineteen-year-old student from Stockholm on holiday in the area, and that she’d drowned as a result of being swept away by the current while swimming on her own “outside the designated safety area.” At the end of the report was a comment from the girl’s mother, Solveig Lindberg, who’d said simply, “I am devastated by the loss of my daughter.”

I’d managed to trace Mrs. Lindberg on the Internet. There were a lot of Solveig Lindbergs, and I’d spent quite a while looking for the right one, but finally I’d found her. She was based in Stockholm, heading a campaign to stop the planting of genetically engineered trees. I’d contacted her by e-mail, established that she was the mother of Elsa, told her I was a psychotherapist, that I’d come across some information concerning the accident in the course of my work, and asked if she’d be willing to answer a few questions about it. She’d replied, saying that she was keen to talk to me, but didn’t wish to communicate about it by e-mail. That was when I’d come up with the idea of going to the psychotherapy conference in Stockholm for my break.

That was over a week ago, and now here I was on the plane. The pilot came on the intercom, announcing that we would soon be landing and saying that the weather in Stockholm was fifteen degrees Celsius, fine and set fair.

I smiled to myself and looked out of the window. Far below, I could see the sea, glittering in the sunshine. Everything’s going to be fine, I told myself. I’ll go to the conference, and see Mrs. Lindberg on the Sunday. In between, I’ll just unwind: explore the old town, the Gamla Stan, visit museums and art galleries, rummage through secondhand clothes shops and market stalls, sit in cafés drinking coffee with cinnamon buns . . . and generally savor my brief moment of freedom.

There’s something about the light in Stockholm. That’s what I remember about it now. I suppose most of the time the place is swathed in cloud and rain, but when I was there, the sun shone out of a clear blue sky each day. It was different from ordinary sunlight, though. It was crystal-clear, cold, and sharp, with a kind of merciless intensity that was at once exhilarating and intimidating: a northern light made for frozen wastes, tundra and taiga, wolves and bears and caribou, not for ordinary human beings going about their daily lives in a busy city. And the way it hit the buildings, sideways-on, was different, too: it came from a strange position in the sky, or so it seemed to me. The sun was high up, so high up that you couldn’t see it at all, except as a dazzling white expanse that you had to look away from quickly before it burned your eyes. It was a dangerous sun, a dangerous sky; not that it wished you harm, of course, it couldn’t care less whether you lived or died. You were nothing to that sky, a mere speck, beetling about with all the other specks on the face of the earth below.

Somehow, living under that sky for those few days, and coming to understand its impassive nature, began to make me feel fierce and reckless. It didn’t help that, where I was staying, near the old part of the city, the streets and passageways between the imposing buildings echoed with the footsteps of passersby; or that ravens circled around the tops of them, cawing, especially when night began to fall; or that, everywhere you looked, you could see the sea, glinting in the glare, mocking your landlubber habits, beckoning you to set sail through frozen waters and ice floes and glaciers to unknown, undreamed-of lands. During those few days in Stockholm something stirred in me—a spirit of adventure, I suppose. I began to realize how constrained, how small, how domestic, my life was, and to long for . . . I’m not sure what. Not something better—I’m quite contented with my lot, on the whole—but definitely something bigger. In Lacan’s words, I’d been “quiet as an oyster,” hiding under a rock on the seashore, and now, the clear light and crisp air of Stockholm had woken me up, and I began to want things oysters don’t want. Pleasure. Excitement. Conflict. Pain.
Jouissance
. In short,
more
—although more of what, I wasn’t quite sure.

The hotel, as I’d hoped, was simple and comfortable, all painted-wood interiors, fluffy towels, and crisp white sheets, with a lovely view over the water that I could see from my bed when I woke up in the morning. The first two days I attended the conference, a series of scientific papers on the nature of mindfulness, the approach du jour in current psychotherapy. They were concerned to show that meditation and other practices borrowed from Buddhism have proven neurological benefits, alleviating all sorts of mental and physical illnesses, from depression and anxiety to psoriasis and tinnitus, by reducing chronic pain and stress. Most of the lectures were fascinating and instructive, and I was glad I’d attended. In the evenings there were parties and dinners, where I bumped into former colleagues and met a host of new ones. They were a lively bunch, all in all, and I thoroughly enjoyed being with them, but I didn’t arrange to meet up with any of them over the weekend. I wanted the rest of my break to myself.

Over the next two days I changed my mind as I pleased: decided to sleep in, but got up early; set out for a must-see museum, only to be distracted by a little street market on the way; skipped lunch, napped in the afternoon, and spent the evening sampling strange fish dishes in a fancy restaurant, high up in a tower that you had to take a lift to get to. For the first time in years I was able to dither to my heart’s content: I spent hours deciding on what souvenirs to bring home and finally settled on some adorable fingerless mittens for the girls, trimmed with embroidered Lapland ribbon; a crimson felt beret with a black grosgrain bow, in mint condition, for myself; and a bottle of aquavit for Bob. It was deeply satisfying not to make plans; not to have to negotiate anything; not to consider anybody’s likes or dislikes, moods or whims, except for my own. And after a while, as I’d hoped, I began to forget about Bob and the translator, and instead immersed myself in the city and its past, walking its cobbled streets, gazing out to the still, blue waters that encircled them, and letting images of Vikings, Valkyries, swan maidens, medieval warlords, megalomaniac kings, and stern, frock-coated pastors run through my head.

On the Sunday, as arranged, I went to the Vasamuseet to meet Solveig Lindberg for lunch. She’d told me that she’d wear a bright pink jacket, so that I could recognize her. She’d said she was in her sixties, with gray hair. I’d described myself as dark-haired, in my forties, and said I’d be wearing fifties-style tortoiseshell sunglasses, whatever the weather.

I got to the restaurant a little ahead of time, but Solveig Lindberg was already there, waiting for me. I noticed her immediately when I walked in. She was wearing the pink jacket, as promised, sitting at a table for two and studying the menu. When I went over and introduced myself, she got up, extending her hand to shake mine. She was tall and slim, dressed in a loose charcoal-colored sweater and trousers that perfectly complemented, and toned down, the pink.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. She seemed excited. “Here, do take a seat.”

I did as she asked.

“Can I get you a drink?”

I took off my sunglasses. “I’ll have a beer, thanks.”

She waved the waiter over. Judging by her angular face and her graying, ex-blonde hair, she was well into her sixties, but she looked the picture of health and elegance, with piercing blue eyes, smooth skin, and lines only in places where lines look good.

She ordered my drink and we made small talk, chatting about the weather, what I thought of Stockholm, and so on. When the waiter came back we ordered our food. Then, as he walked off, she laced her fingers together, leaned forward slightly, and cut to the chase.

“So. You wanted to talk to me about my daughter’s death.”

Usually, I’ve noticed, people avoid the word “death” when speaking of a loved one. They say “passed away,” “left us,” or some such euphemism. I wondered briefly if it was a cultural difference, whether the Swedes were perhaps more pragmatic about this kind of thing, or whether Mrs. Lindberg herself was unusually forthright.

“Yes.” I paused, wondering how best to begin. “I can’t tell you how I came across this information, but let’s just say, I’ve got a client who may or may not be affected by it. I want to help him, so I’ve decided to look into it further. For reasons of confidentiality, I’m unable to say more than that. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

She nodded.

“Now, it’s been suggested to me that the accident wasn’t fully investigated. I don’t know anything about it myself, though. That’s why I’m here. To ask you.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I don’t mind talking about it.” She picked up her glass of water and took a sip. “In fact, I’m glad of the opportunity. I don’t get much of a chance to discuss it these days.”

There was a silence. I looked down at her hands, noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

As if reading my thoughts, she went on, “After Elsa died, I split up with her father. She was our only child.”

I nodded, but said nothing.

“He remarried, started a new family.” She paused. “I never did. I’m not sure why.”

She stopped talking. I decided not to ask her why the split had occurred. I thought I probably knew. Put simply, there are times when, for a couple who have lost a child, love doesn’t do the job. When parents are suddenly plunged into misery together like that, they sometimes find the best way to deal with it is to get away from each other, make a new start, carry on alone or with somebody new. That’s the plain, unvarnished truth. It isn’t very palatable, of course. But there it is.

“You see,” she went on. “Andreas—that’s Elsa’s father—was angry with me. He thought I couldn’t accept that Elsa’s death was an accident. That I couldn’t cope with the idea emotionally.”