Cath Staincliffe - Towers of Silence

I drank some wine.

“It was good,” I told him. “But it’s changed for me. I’m sorry. I can’t really explain it very well but I don’t want to carry on. I’m sorry.”

“Can we talk about it?” He stared at the fire.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

He exhaled. Filled his glass and drank some.

I felt awkward and desperate to leave.

“If you need some time…”

Oh, don’t!

“No. Thanks but… I think I’ll go.”

I’d been there all of five minutes.

“That’s it?” He asked. “No chance to talk about it, nothing?” Emotion edged his voice. “You’ve decided so that’s it? It was good, you said so yourself, maybe it could be like that again? If we don’t talk about it…”

“Stuart…”

“Please, Sal, listen.”

It was the last thing I wanted to do. Was I being unfair? I gave a small nod.

“I like you, I like you a lot. You’re the first person I’ve met since Nat and I broke up that comes anywhere near the sort of relationship I’m looking for.”

I gazed into the stove, watching the tongues of fire lick about the wood.

“I’m not saying it would last forever, it’s too soon to tell but I don’t want to lose you, not just end it,” he sighed. “There must be things that would help, we could give it another few weeks, talk about what might work for us at the moment…”

“Stuart,” I couldn’t let him go on; it hurt to realise how much he wanted me. His honesty was salt in the wounds. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t change how I feel now.”

“You like me.”

“It’s not enough. I don’t want to pretend.”

“God,” he sighed, put his head in his hands.

“Anything else would just be messing you about. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“And this is?”

“I’m sorry. I’m going to go now.”

We stood up, both leaning forward for my coat. A ripple of embarrassment. I took it from him, slipped it on. He saw me to the door. I imagined us shaking hands. It made me want to laugh. Nerves. I didn’t want him to kiss me. He didn’t try. We hugged. I could smell his cologne, a light, grassy scent. He had thought I might stay. He would have made up the bed, perhaps bought treats for breakfast. Don’t do this, Sal. The sex had always been good. But sex wasn’t enough, there was everything else.

I pulled away. We said goodbye.

Was I mad? He was a nice man and there weren’t many available. Would that be it for the next few years? The sum total of my relationships? Would I always be so picky? Yes, Stuart had flaws but the good things far outweighed them. And he really liked me. He’d been gutted. Was a single life really preferable to compromising? I was turning my back on sex and affection and someone to stroke my head and laugh with. Why wouldn’t I settle for anything less than perfect?

I wanted to ring Diane and go out to a club and get rat-arsed with her and dance myself stupid but Diane was in Iceland. Everyone else I knew well enough to tell about it was snugly settled in happy coupledom and well out of the clubbing habit. Not that I’d even know which clubs were playing what these days. And I shouldn’t get drunk anyway. Laura and I were taking the kids for their promised walk in the morning while Ray cracked on with his furniture and I was seeing the Johnstones at two. A hangover wouldn’t help. I shouldn’t get drunk. But shouldn’t and wouldn’t are two different things. So I did.

I sat by the tree with a lamp on and a bottle of Merlot by my side and wrote more hopelessly late Christmas cards. I stayed up to watch the film until the wine ran out and my eyes began to dehydrate.

I drank two pints of water, knowing it wouldn’t come close, and got to bed. I don’t remember getting into bed but that’s where I woke up on Sunday morning. With my head lanced with pain, a churning stomach and a large pebble where my tongue should have been.

“Where are we going?”

“To the caves.”

The children bounced around like ping-pong balls in the hall while Laura and I gathered outdoor clothes together.

“Why isn’t Daddy coming?” Tom asked.

“He’s got to finish his chairs,” Laura told him.

Digger yelped as Tom trod on his paw which made Maddie scream. A thin needle of agony stitched through my temple. I was hoping the Nurofen would kick in soon. It had been half-an-hour.

“Don’t scream,” I said carefully. No one heard.

My phone rang and I shooed them out to the car with Laura while I took the call.

“It’s Bryony Walker. I’m sorry to ring you over the weekend but I thought you’d like to know, I’ve got some good news.”

My pulse increased and my head throbbed more.

“What is it?”

“I was with an old friend in Brum last night. She’s been working on an inquiry down in Devon and Cornwall with the police. Guess whose name came up.”

“Eddie Cliff.”

“Bingo. Except he was going by the name of Cliff Edwards, working there way back in the mid-seventies. Anyway, to cut a long story short, there are two women who have come forward and are prepared to talk about what happened.”

Oh, yes! “Brilliant. And they’ll be able to prosecute?”

“Fingers crossed. I’ll give you the name of the officer in charge of the inquiry and you can pass it on to the authorities at your end.”

“Thanks,” I took down the details. Digger was outside barking with frustration and Maddie began calling my name.

“Sounds like you’re wanted,” she said.

“Yes, thanks for that. It’s a real breakthrough. Great.”

“I nearly rang you in the early hours. Managed to restrain myself. Anyway, have a good Christmas.”

“You too, and a happy new year.”

It was good news but I felt a shiver of anxiety as I left the house. I blamed it on the drink. Not content with messing me up physically, it was having a go at my emotions. Fresh air, I told myself. Fresh air and fun and a huge lunch later.

“Come on,” Maddie bawled.

I got in the car.

Alderley Edge is twenty-five minutes drive on a good day. It used to take longer but the new by-pass removes the need to crawl through the traffic jam in Wilmslow town centre.

The village at Alderley Edge nestles at the foot of the big hill and is renowned as the champagne capital of the north. It’s celebrity territory; Posh and Becks country. A desirable Cheshire location within reach of Manchester and the airport, occupied by footballers, soap stars, those at the higher reaches of the media and entertainment business. And up the hill, past the mansions with their landscaped gardens and double garages, their turrets and follies, monkey-puzzle trees and orchid houses, their horses and dogs, stands the Edge. A sandstone escarpment, stuck on the Cheshire plain, covered with woods and riddled by old copper mine workings, quarries, caves and gullies. Local legends tell of the Wizard who sleeps beneath the Edge, a story immortalised in the children’s book by Alan Garner.

We stopped at the main car park and meandered through the woods towards the Edge, stopping en route at the small Druids’ stone circle where the children played stepping stones. The stones were small and low but some were too far apart for either of them to make the jump. Digger ran off exploring and made his way back to us when called.

Further on, we climbed up to the site where they lit the beacon to warn of the Armada. I read the plaque out to the children; a ritual of our visits.

Most of the trees were bare, their branches and twigs laced against the pearly grey sky, bird’s nests, tangled balls of twigs clearly visible. Underfoot lay a soft carpet of conifer needles, orange beech leaves and beech nut cases and mud. Here and there a Scot’s pine or a holly tree remained evergreen. A brisk wind shook the trees and blew our hair about, wafted the sharp aroma of leaf mould and crushed vegetation our way.