The Cape
by
Garry Linahan
Smashwords Edition
Published by
Garry Linahan and Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Garry Linahan
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter One
London 1900
Apart from our supervisor, Mrs Bell, Manfred and I were the only two remaining in the private study room that afternoon. I had been furiously trying to finish a paper on the human digestive system, and as there was still much to get down and the paper had to be submitted shortly that day, I was becoming a little frantic. Manfred on the other hand sat by the window and occasionally I would glance across to see him staring quite distractedly into the yard.
“Manfred,” I whispered at one point, “what are you doing?”
He gazed back, nonchalantly. “What?”
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have any work to complete?”
Before he was able to answer Mrs Bell was ordering us to be quiet, at which point Manfred rolled his eyes and smiled in my direction. He then left the room with his books. It was another half-hour before I was able to enjoy the same luxury, although I was a little more courteous in my departure, wishing Mrs Bell all the best for the holiday period.
“That was rude,” I chipped Manfred, half-jokingly, on meeting him outside. Manfred laughed loudly.
“Poor Mrs Bell. Do you realise she actually thinks I’m a part of this faculty?”
“Well, we don’t see her again for another four weeks, which is good. Are you still going down to the beach house?”
“Yes,” said Manfred, indicating his bag. “I’m heading down tonight. Did you submit your paper?”
“I did, but I made mistakes I’m sure - and I failed to refer to old Crilly’s pertinent points, the ones he stressed so much in his last lecture. God help me.”
The sun was still high as Manfred joined me in my walk to my residence, a haze of factory smoke hanging motionless over the distant dun coloured buildings. It grew thicker the farther one looked, all but obscuring the church spires and painting the far docklands grey.
“I’ll be glad to be away from here for a while,” said Manfred, looking out over what he saw as a depressing tapestry.
I followed his eyes through the rows of elms and down the hill, into the low flat plain that held the major buildings of the city. My sentiments were not the same. I enjoyed my life in London. I enjoyed the sounds of industry and the movement of people, all going about the important things in their lives. I even enjoyed the city’s moodiness - the way it was right now - the hanging mist of smoke as the day was running down. I felt like a cog in the works of a great machine, and I liked that. In its way it made me feel like I was going somewhere, as though in my own small way I was a part of what made the city tick.
The two of us were nearly back to my residence when Manfred suddenly turned and said, “Why don’t you come with me tonight, Alan? Come down on the train.”
“But I can’t,” I replied. “I’m taking my own train.”
“But why?” he said. “Your parents are on the continent. Who are you going home to?”
Manfred did make a good point and the idea was suddenly tempting. My parents and younger sister would not be back in Sudbury for another fortnight.
“I would have to wire them,” I said after a moment, “and also Mrs Appleby, next door. She knows I’m due tonight.”
Manfred laughed, mainly I’m sure at my conservative nature.
“Then do it, and come on down to the beach house with me.”
I thought for a moment and concluded, why not? My parents would not mind; in fact they would encourage this. They were always saying that although they were proud of what I was doing, of my studies and so forth, I should get out more and enjoy myself. It was a perfect opportunity, and as Manfred and I had become good friends throughout the year, I agreed.
We entered my residence, which was suddenly a very busy place, with fellow students packing up and getting ready to head home. The general feeling was one of euphoria; even the grey walls of the accommodation, always so dull and sombre, seemed vibrant and cheery, and the weakness of sunlight that leaked in through the tiny windows could not dampen spirits. Manfred of course had his bag packed, so I quickly packed mine. There was then little left to do but say a few quick goodbyes and be gone. We slung our burdens across our backs and headed off down the tree-lined path. It took us away from the college, followed the meandering route of a quiet little brook, and brought us eventually into town.
The walk from there to Waterloo Station was another twenty minutes. It was a walk I always enjoyed immensely. I loved the old-style architecture of the major buildings, but equally the pokey little storefronts and narrow cobbled streets - indeed the whole atmosphere the city created. To me there was an air of mystery about it. Every building meant something to somebody; they either lived there or worked there, and others still were connected by business, or some other association. Each address was a part in a play, a piece that interacted with the piece next to it, or with some other piece somewhere else as a result of those who went there for whatever purpose. There were so many complex lives going on in this one jumbled maze, all reacting and interacting directly or indirectly with each other, and in ways I would never know.
I looked for a moment at Manfred and saw by his face that none of this held any particular fascination for him. All that interested him at that moment was getting on the train and out of the city, and from there into some fresh country air.
We marched on and got to the station in plenty of time, so I was able to wire my messages from there before our train arrived. While I was doing that Manfred organised our tickets and before long I joined him on the platform. We then sat and a few minutes passed before I felt, rather than heard, the rumbling of the train as it approached. The sensation grew as the conveyance got nearer, finally stopping alongside the platform with a shriek and a loud belch of steam.
“Come on,” said Manfred, “the front carriage,” and he pulled me quickly down the platform by the strap of my bundle.
The locomotive itself had travelled well down the platform by the time it had come to a complete stop, and so the first carriage was a little walk for us. We stepped onboard and I saw now why Manfred insisted on this carriage. It was one of a few that had recently undergone a total restoration and was again plush and well appointed, carpeted, and with freshly upholstered seats. We threw our bags into the luggage carriers above us and settled back into the soft comfort of leather.
“It’s even heated,” said Manfred with a grin. “Just as well you’re with me. You’d have probably had us back in the guardsvan.”
“Yes, probably,” I agreed, just as the last call for passengers resonated along the platform.
It was perhaps another minute when the shrill sound of the whistle announced our imminent departure. It was just a quick report and with a jolt the train began to move forward. Slowly it gained speed and as I looked out the window I felt for a time that we were stationary and the platform was moving instead. It was a strange illusion but it didn’t last, and soon enough we were clear of the building and the sights of the city were flashing past. The choofing of the loco could plainly be heard from where we sat and the occasional blast of the whistle would tell us of an upcoming crossing.
“How long is the trip?” I asked Manfred.
“About three hours by train, then we take the late coach from Dorchester. That takes us all the way to Cape Terrible.”
“Cape Terrible - what a name! Whatever made your parents select such a place?”
“Well,” said Manfred, “it’s really just a local name, but over the years it has stuck. Anyway, it wasn’t them. It was my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Yes. He was an eccentric old coot, an ex-seaman. He needed to be by the ocean even after he grew too old to work. He decided to buy this old house high on the cliffs, overlooking the Cape. When he died it was willed to my father and my parents have retained the place ever since as a holiday spot.”
“Are your parents there now?” I asked.
“No. They’ll be down towards the end of the week. Tonight there’s just you and me, and tomorrow my cousin Isabella arrives.”
Isabella? Manfred never mentioned this. I had thought it was just he and I, and maybe his parents. Who was this Isabella? I moved uncomfortably in my seat. It was a fact that I had never been a person to make friends very easily, and at best was nervous with the fairer sex. Indeed, had Manfred told me about his cousin, I might well have stayed away. I felt quite uneasy at the news of Isabella, and became instantly quiet, and although I thought this would surely be obvious, Manfred stared straight ahead and seemed to not notice.
For a long time I sat silently. Lost in nervous thought, I gazed blankly from the window, my mind elsewhere as the dwindling remains of the city slipped by, the last of suburbia vanishing as we rolled out across country. With the sun by this stage hanging low in the sky, the spreading fields took on a glowing, golden hue. In time these too disappeared, the landscape switching to a rough, rocky terrain, windswept and bleak. Strangely enough I felt my focus shift to this as I stared through the glass. The atmosphere of the land was changing. Everything was sparse and stunted in its growth. Life looked difficult for those few plants and animals I could see. At one point I saw a distant, solitary man, and I wondered what business it was that put him in such a desolate place. The moor country was one place I had never been to but I imagined it must look something like this. As I watched, and as the shadows grew long, I felt glad when the last of the day was finally swallowed by night. The view from the window had filled me with an uncommon sense of melancholia, the depressing stillness and emptiness of the vista so unlike the vibrant, pulsing city I had come to love.
Soon we were an hour into the trip, and all was dark. It seemed at this point the train took on a life of its own. The distraction of the countryside thankfully was gone and the constant sound of the steam engine, the regular click-clack as we ran across the joins in the rails, and the rolling, swaggering nature of the carriage all gave one a renewed sense of positivity and security. The continuity of sound was broken only every now and then as we approached a crossing of some sort. On these occasions the engineer would sound his whistle. The lights of some local pub would periodically flash past, but otherwise, for mile after mile and hour after hour, it seemed we were in the middle of nowhere.
“Not long to go now,” said Manfred, whom I had taken to be asleep. I swung my head to look at him, and although it was dark, I could see that indeed his eyes were closed. It was barely a moment later when I felt the train begin to slow. Its speed dropped by half and through the pane I saw a mini-metropolis emerging. At first it was just the lonely, lighted window of an occasional farmhouse, but bit by bit the outer reaches of some foreign suburbia emerged.
“Dorchester, I take it?”
“Yes,” Manfred answered, sitting forward now and checking his watch by the growing light from outside, “and we made good time too. The coach doesn’t leave for another half-hour. Fancy a coffee?”
The big locomotive ground to a halt alongside a platform somewhat less grand than the one we left. We each grabbed our luggage and made for the door. Manfred knew his way and after showing our ticket-stubs he led me to a drab little hole in the wall where one might obtain a beverage. He handed me mine and together we sat on a small bench positioned in the middle of the thoroughfare.
“So who’s this Isabella?” I asked.
“Just my cousin,” he answered, lightly blowing his drink to cool it. “Why? Got designs on her already?”
I looked at him and saw that he grinned as he said it.
“Nothing of the sort,” I answered, trying hard to return his expression of mirth. “It’s just that I’ve never heard you mention her. What does she do? Is she our age?”
“She’s a year younger than us. Goes to school here in Dorchester - doing her final year.”
“Isn’t she a little old for school? She must be nineteen and a half.”
Manfred stirred his coffee with what seemed a sudden and uncommon deliberation.
“She missed a year.”
At once I noticed that his tone was different, more serious, and I turned my eyes to search his face. The change I detected in his demeanour however was fleeting, for at that moment the sound of the street caught his ear and he swung his head.
“Listen,” he said, “I hear hooves. It will be our coach.”
The coach had arrived early. It was only a quarter to eight, but as departure was not until the hour, there seemed no immediate rush to down our drinks. Manfred, however, was up like a shot and out the door, leaving both his coffee and me behind. He returned almost as quickly, saying he had confirmed our passage.
“You’ve got to be quick,” he said. “There’s only room inside for ten, so it’s first in best dressed. The eight o’clock coach is the last for the night.”
“Surely there can’t be so many people wanting passage to Cape Terrible?” I said.
“No, no. It will only be us, but there are stops along the way. The last stop before us will be for Mrs Carmichael over there. She lives about a mile this side of the Cape.”
I looked over and saw a drably dressed, plump woman in her sixties, holding a cloth shopping bag, her round head and puffy features framed within a ridiculous, ill fitting hat. I looked at Manfred. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled his amusement. We finished off our drinks, collected our baggage, and headed for the coach. The night air was crisp and still, and cool enough for the breath of the horses to rise before the dull glow of the street lamp.
As it turned out, there had been no need for Manfred to panic; there were but seven of us on board. Manfred and I sat opposite each other; then there was Mrs Carmichael - she constantly badgering Manfred, demanding his opinion about her new hat - a young woman with twin girls, and finally an elderly gentleman, who spoke not a word for the entire trip.
For the most part the ride was smooth and comfortable, the beautiful rhythm of the hoof-beats repeating their soft drumming throughout the coach. The mother and two children were the first to alight, perhaps fifteen minutes into the trip. I looked out the window and could see a distant light from their farmhouse. The coach moved on and soon the road got a little rougher, the horses slowing considerably as the coach lurched from side to side. The old man was next out, then ten minutes later, Mrs Carmichael.
“Thank God,” laughed Manfred, when she was out of earshot. “She’s always like that.”
From there on the track became rutted and at times steeply inclined. The horses were down to a slow walk and the driver could be heard talking them along. That last mile seemed much longer and it was well past ten o’clock when finally we arrived, pulling up just shy of the beach house. The driver rested his horses for a few minutes, giving them each a drink, then headed back to an inn beyond Mrs Carmichael’s place. The inn was apparently a low-key affair, run by a Mr Wilson, and Manfred said the driver would stable his horses there and stay the night.
We stood for a moment and I braced myself against the rising wind. Earlier that evening, in Dorchester, the air had been quite still and calm, but now, high on the cliffs overlooking Cape Terrible, a strong sea breeze was evident.
“It’s windy here,” I noted.
“This is nothing,” said Manfred. “There are times when the wind would blow you off these cliffs. Normally it gets stronger as the day goes on, and some nights can get pretty wild.”
My friend led the way along a narrow, pitch-dark track, with low hedges on either side. The ocean could be heard in the distance, a deep droning presence, and the waves too, breaking at the foot of the cliffs. The feeling was unsettling. The night was so dark, starry yet moonless, and all that surrounded was like an endless void. I could make out a dark mass that constituted the house; it stood stark on the cliffs, the sky behind it. The ground below my feet was as black as peat and extended away to the edge of the cliffs. There it appeared to stop suddenly, as if at the end of the world. Manfred stopped in front of me and I walked straight into him, unable to see him. With a creak, he swung open a wrought-iron gate, and from there we walked on a stone path to the verandah steps.
We stood on the verandah in total darkness and I was glad Manfred was present. I imagined arriving here in the night alone, and the thought was indeed an eerie one. The ceiling and heavy upright posts of the verandah seemed to encase us like some menacing giant, and more than once, before Manfred had the door unlocked, did I feel the clinging sensation of cobwebs. With a deep groan, the front door swung inward, the both of us then stepping inside and closing it behind us.
“This is damned spooky,” I said in my lowest voice.
There was no response from Manfred, but a moment later a wall-mounted lamp flickered to life, throwing an uncertain glow along the passage in which we stood.
“I’ll light the others,” he said. “We don’t have any proper lamps here yet and electricity is still a way off.”
I stayed put, just inside the front door, as my friend worked his way down the passage, igniting in turn three more candlelamps.
The hallway was narrow and long, thirty or more feet, with high ceilings, and picture rails that were mounted well above head height. Hanging from these were various portraits, strange, foreign faces done in oil, each framed in dark timber. Not one face amongst them was smiling, and I was conscious that each was watching me.
“Is it cheerier by day?” I asked, as Manfred returned to my side.
He sensed some trepidation within me and took advantage of it.
“No, not really,” he said, his face serious. Then he laughed.
He led me through into the main living area; it was the first doorway and opened directly off the hall. He lit some more wall lamps, and when the room was aglow, he lit an open fire that had already been stocked with wood.
“That will be warm in half an hour. Come on Alan, I’ll show you to your room.” I followed him back into the hallway. At the far end we turned sharply right and into a steep bank of stairs.
“The bedrooms are up here,” he said. “Follow me up. There are more candlelamps in the rooms.”
The stairs creaked and groaned with every step, our way becoming increasingly dark as the hall light petered behind us. Then, when we reached the top, I was struck by the faintest glow from without, the night finding its way feebly in through the upper windows. Once Manfred lit the two lamps in each of our rooms, the grim emotion I had been feeling seemed to lessen somewhat. And yet despite this I was keen for the morning to come, and to be able to see this foreboding place in daylight.
My room was spartan in its appointments - a large single bed, a wardrobe, a small chest, and very little else. In part, the floorboards were covered over by a once ornate Persian rug. On the wall farthest from the door was the room’s only window; timber framed and double-hung, it looked out to sea over the cliffs of Cape Terrible.
“Come on, Alan,” came a voice from the top of the stairs. “Come on down and I’ll pour you a brandy. It’ll lift your spirits.”
We sat together in the lounge room, on either side of the now crackling fire. The wall lamps were almost unnecessary as flames licked high beneath the mantle, the walls and furniture mottled in the ever changing and flickering glow. Immediately the place seemed less bad, indeed the loungeroom now adopted a cosy and welcoming atmosphere.
“So what do you do here?” I asked, as Manfred reached for the bottle and poured me a second brandy.
“It’s just a good place to relax,” he said, retaking his seat. “These big old armchairs are great for just sitting in and reading when the weather beats in from the ocean, but on days when the weather is nice the beach is the place to be, especially in summer. Right now the water is still a little cool but in a couple of months it’ll be just perfect.”
I swirled the brandy in my glass.
“Is it safe to swim here?” I said. “I mean, I could hear waves crashing against rocks.”
He smiled. “It’s safe further down. There’s a sheltered inlet, a bay, about a half-mile walk. The path leads down through the scrub, where the cliff face is not so severe. That’s where we swim. There’s also a small river there. It’s called the Lockington River, but really it’s more like a big tumbling creek. It drains down from the plateau and sort of meanders through the sand. From there it empties into the bay. We have a boatshed there, built high enough that the incoming tide doesn’t flood it. My father keeps a little yacht inside. When the sea is calm enough, we go sailing.”
“I’m not sure I’d want to go sailing in a place called Cape Terrible,” I said.
Manfred chuckled.
“It got that name a century or more ago, when merchant ships were getting smashed against the rocks. The seas can get pretty wild at times so we normally just sail inside the inlet. It’s generally safe enough.”
I nodded, and we talked a little longer. I was, by now, feeling quite comfortable, and the brandy was warming me from within. The fire too was providing captivating viewing, the embers glowing orange as they began to burn down. Manfred stood and placed one final log on the pile.
“That should smoulder away all night,” he said. “The room should still be warm by morning.”
It was now well after midnight and both of us had decided it was time to turn in.
Manfred set about extinguishing the downstairs lamps. I thanked him for the brandy, bade him goodnight, and headed upstairs.
My room was cold, the heat from below having not penetrated the upper floor. Quickly I climbed into bed and allowed the abundance of blankets to start warming me. The day had been an exciting and tiring one, and I was feeling quite exhausted. I lay curled, motionless in the warming bed, my body buzzing in its weariness, perhaps too from the effects of the brandy. I was now quite relaxed and felt confident that despite my foreign surroundings I would be able to sleep well. It was not to be the case however, as I soon found out, for my sleep on this particular night was destined to be disturbed.
Initially I woke to the sound of a rising wind that rattled and shook the old house; and somewhere on the roof there was a loose sheet of iron, for it flapped and banged during the strongest gusts. Had I been in my own home, or at least in a place more familiar, I might have slept through that noise, but a house that is foreign can sometimes keep a person from their ease. For more than an hour I heard the wind roar. At one point it seemed the entire house might be lost. I wondered if Manfred was sleeping through it; he probably was, for this was his second home, and he would know none of the uneasiness that filled me.
Finally the wind abated, and again I fell back to sleep. How long my sleep lasted before I was next disturbed, I do not know, but the source of that next disturbance would defy all belief. An amazing, inexplicable event was set to occur. It was something that would, from that night forth, stay with me forever, and remain seared into my memory.
Having drifted back to sleep, I was dreaming, of what, I can no longer recall. All I know is that suddenly I was awake again, and consumed immediately by the frightening impression that I was not alone. Sensing somebody in the room I ceased to breathe, my eyes at once moving through the darkness, trying to pick out a form, wholly terrified that I might.
There was nothing. The room itself was like pitch - blacker only where the tall, square wardrobe announced its shape. The window was visible but admitted almost no light; such was the nature of the night outside. My body was feeling chilled by the impression I received. I kept searching the blackened room, my eyes scanning through the darkness. There was nothing, Finally I was able to convince myself the experience was no more than a figment of my dreaming.
For a time I lay there, glad the wild wind had eased, just the faintest zephyr now rattling the leaves on the outer wall. Surely my mind had played tricks with me. After all, the room was foreign, and the house itself had unsettled me, the darkness too, and the isolated location. Yes, I thought, that’s all it was.
Time passed until again my mind started to cloud. But then, as my eyes grew heavier and I began to drift once more, it came again. This time, however, the sensation was undeniable.
My eyes sprang open. Somewhere in the room something had moved. It was a movement I had sensed as much as heard, and in the seconds that followed I watched, stunned, as a figure steadily took its form from out of the blackness of the wardrobe. The apparition then moved across the face of the window, slowly, a silhouette, its shape human, seemingly female, it eventually turned and faced me. My heart leapt, cold chills consuming every part of me.
“Who are you?” I gasped, quickly pulling myself up and back in the bed.
“Sshh,” she answered, with a strange hiss that sounded like escaping steam.
I obliged, frozen, and unable to avert my eyes. Slowly she moved towards me. The woman was young; I could tell as much as she hovered by my side. Her movements were slow, seemed dreamlike, peaceable and soft. Again she said, “Sshh,” even though I had not spoken. Then, with hands that were warm, she pressed me back, down onto the bed. She pulled back the bed covers and climbed above me, supporting herself on knees that straddled my body. It was only at that moment that I realised her nakedness, how utterly naked she was. My hands instinctively found either side of her waist, her soft skin alive with thousands of goosebumps.
I was unable to speak as she pulled down my bed pants, the sudden warmth of her touch putting the fear within me on hold. Methodically she unbuttoned my top and pulled it aside, fell upon me, raining down kisses on my face and neck before finally placing her soft lips fully on mine. Beyond any hope of control I was instantly and enormously aroused at which point she very carefully set about easing herself upon me.
And then, with a pulsing regularity more beautiful than anything I could ever have imagined, with a body that rose and fell with the rhythm of a metronome, my sudden and newfound friend had her way.
The morning sun burst through the glass, stabbing me in the face, my eyes writhing and squirming in their sockets as I came to consciousness. Blinking my lids open, I saw an orange ball rising from the window ledge, blasting sudden white rays into the room. I rolled away from the invasion with the idea of continued slumber, but at once rolled back and stared, wide-eyed at the ceiling.
“My God,” I whispered, having just remembered what transpired in the night. I sprang at once into a seated position, feeling my body all over, looking urgently around the room.
There was nothing, and nobody – just me.
I checked my bedclothes; my top was buttoned as it had been when I retired, and certainly I was wearing my bottoms. Springing from the bed, I checked the wardrobe. It was empty but for my clothes. There was nothing, and nobody under the bed, and the window was locked on the inside. I felt utterly confused. Whoever my visitor had been, she most certainly was gone now. I sat back on the bed with my feet on the floor, reliving a most incomprehensible event.
Did it really happen? To this day, I do not know. At the point in my life to which I allude, it was not uncommon for me to experience imaginings of sexual fantasy, but this had been something else altogether. This had not been a dream. I had felt her naked body upon me; indeed, as I sat on the edge of the bed I could still smell her intoxicating scent, feel her firm breasts pressing against my chest, her soft hair as it poured and licked like honey all over my features. No, I had not been asleep; it had not been a dream.
And yet, the more I thought of it, the more troubled I became, for I could not remember how the episode ended. I could not remember the completion of our lovemaking, or what came afterwards. To this very day the only details I remember are those as already described. Within me, there has never been any recollection of the woman leaving, never known for sure who she was or where she went. Even her face, in the blackness of night, I never saw. I simply awoke the next morning having experienced something incredible, and yet I possessed only half the story, as though I had passed out during the commission of the act.
It was so strange, and the more so for my being destined to never really understand what happened. Things in life, I know, are not always fully explained, and even with the passage of time, this encounter, and one more that was yet to come, remain the most bizarre single events of my life. And yet that which happened that first dark night atop the cliffs of Cape Terrible was just the beginning of what would prove to be a most tragic and life changing week; a week that would haunt my life forever, as real to me now, so many years later, as it was then.
Chapter two
At some later point in the morning I dressed and made my way downstairs, but not before I surveyed from my bedroom window the stark vista that was Cape Terrible. The bright sun that woke me now rose above the ocean; the waters beneath flashing like silver. Way in the distance I could see a ship, her full sails shimmering in the light. The morning was calm; the wind having blown itself out during the night, but the scarce, stunted trees that grew atop the cliffs were testament to its regularity and strength. The grasses along the cliff’s edge and through the surrounding fields were wispy and dry, bent and broken like dying wheat. There were no other buildings either, at least none that I could see from my bedroom window. The scene was desolate, yet the day outside was fine. I imagined how it might look when the weather was less cheerful, when the wind blew a tempest as it had in the night, and the rain beat in sideways.
On entering the loungeroom, I saw the open fire blazing away once more, my friend seated by the window, his head buried in a novel. He looked up as I entered.
“Alan,” he said cheerfully, then glanced at the clock. “How was your sleep? I thought you must have abandoned me and headed home.”
“No, I’m still here,” I replied, though perhaps a little sheepishly.
“Did you hear the wind last night? That was Cape Terrible at its best. Did it wake you?”
“Yes, at one point I thought the entire house might be lost.”
I moved across the room, retaking the same seat I had occupied the evening before, studying my friend as he resumed his book. After a minute or so he looked up as if sensing my gaze.
“Sorry, Alan,” he said, “ I’ll put it down. I just wanted to finish that page. Have you had a look around at all? Is the old house still just as spooky as it was last night?”
I immediately thought of my needy visitor, not that she had for a moment left my mind.
“Worse,” I laughed, feeling confused and embarrassed. I was unsure how to broach the subject of my nocturnal guest.
“Manfred,” I said, “is it just you and I in this house, or is it possible somebody else is here?”
He looked upon me with amused features.
“Why’s that?” he laughed. “Hearing noises in the night?”
Those amused features then turned to a cheeky grin and I suddenly felt an inkling of suspicion. Manfred was known as something of a practical joker and at once I had the idea that perhaps he had arranged my visitor. I also knew that he had a reputation as a bit of a lady’s man, whereas I was considerably more reserved. This sudden notion did however pass quickly from my head, for when could Manfred have made such arrangements? We had hardly been out of each other’s company since I had decided to accompany him to the beach house. Manfred generally would display a playful attitude anyway, so his manner toward me was by no means abnormal.
“I suppose this house, being as old as it is and located in such a remote place, makes me more sensitive, and as you say, the noise from that howling wind was atrocious.”
“Yes,” he replied, “the place does tend to creak and groan. I’m used to it I suppose. The weather outside looks fine now though, so we’ll have something to eat and I’ll show you around.”
“Can I see the rest of the house first?” I asked. “I’ve hardly seen it.”
“Yes, of course. Have a look around while I cook us some breakfast.”
I was most curious to investigate, and I first followed my friend to the kitchen, which was nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a simple, country kitchen, dated but serviceable. On the wall facing the sea was a steel trough for washing up, beside that some cupboards, and above the trough the only window in the room, which I observed to be securely snibbed. There were more cupboards on the other walls and a large broom closet near the door. One by one I opened each of these and found nothing out of the ordinary.
“You’re quite a snoop,” said Manfred, as he watched me with interest.
I feigned a laugh then left him and headed off on my self-guided tour.
First, I went back upstairs. Having been through my room already I was convinced I would find nothing further there. I checked the others. There was the master bedroom and two more rooms like mine. Clearly the only other one being used was that which Manfred had occupied. I roamed around and opened every door. The upstairs held no secrets as far as I could tell, and certainly no hidden houseguests. There were two other doors that I found on the upper level, but both turned out to be nothing more than storage nooks. There was some sort of sitting room, which had obviously been unused for some time, for the furniture was covered in dust and the room gave off a musty smell. Every window on the upper floor was timber framed and double-hung and each was locked by a rotating snib. I headed back downstairs.
My inspection of the lower level was also in no way startling. There was the lounge room, kitchen, laundry, bathroom, some storage, and a second, smaller living area.
There was nothing unusual about any part of the house so far as I could see. All windows on both floors were securely locked, as one might expect in a house that was not always occupied. At the far end of the hall, beyond the laundry, was a back door. It too was securely locked. There was simply no way that anybody else could be in the house, nor did it appear that anybody could have come or gone in the time since Manfred and I had arrived. I was beginning to doubt the reality of the previous night’s very peculiar encounter. Perhaps the entire thing had been a figment of my imagination, but if so, then what a figment it had been. I returned to the kitchen just as Manfred was dishing up a strange breakfast of salted meat and vegetables.
“Not much to see, eh?” he said, as the peculiar breakfast wafted into my nostrils.
“No, I suppose not,” I answered. “The place was so dark last night. It seemed so massive, so imposing, yet it’s really not that big.” I looked at my plate. “This looks interesting.”
Manfred smiled. “Let’s polish it off and I’ll show you around Cape Terrible.”
Ten minutes later we locked the front door behind us and made our way out through the squeaking gate.
“You wouldn’t think we’d need to lock up in a place like this,” said Manfred. “We never used to, even when we went boating, but now my father insists on it. There’s been a couple of times when he feels sure somebody’s been in the house.”
My eyes fixed suddenly on my friend.
“Really? When was that?”
“Oh, quite a while ago now. He thinks it might have been my uncle.”
His uncle? The remark sparked within me a most bizarre and sickening thought, and for a moment my legs went weak. Then realising how ludicrous it surely was, I dismissed the idea from my mind.
We walked down the path and I turned and looked back at the house.
“It looks so different in daylight,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Manfred. “I’m just glad to be out of the city. Come on, I’ll show you the cliffs.”
We headed off across one of the wispy fields already described, the ground rising and falling in gentle undulations. The land was shrinking beneath my feet, as ahead of us the wide sea grew more and more vast. Within a hundred yards of the house we were standing atop the most terrifying drop I had ever seen.
“My God,” I exclaimed. “You could walk right over this at night.”
The grass simply stopped at the edge of the cliff, which fell directly a hundred or more feet. Below were jagged, black outcrops of rock, the sea foaming around them. I looked left and right, the cliff face seeming to extend endlessly in either direction, disappearing only where it cut deeper inland, then reappearing further on.
“It goes on like this for mile after mile,” said Manfred. “There is only that one section further down - it can’t be seen from here - where the cliff is not so sheer.”
“Oh, yes, you told me about that. That’s where you have your boatshed.”
“Yes. Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you.”
We headed off along the clifftops. The walking was easy, the grass thin and low, the cliff’s edge cutting back inland in giant swathes where the ocean had beaten against it for centuries. The breeze came up as we walked, and by the time we reached the point where we could descend, the wind was blowing at some knots.
Before too long I saw to our right a good-sized bay opening up. The cliff had begun falling away as Manfred had described, and fell away steadily to sea level. Further on it recovered its grandeur, and could be seen lining the bay’s distant shores.
“Just watch your step,” warned Manfred as we headed down a narrow, rock-strewn path to what would soon emerge as a small sandy beach.
From the beach the giant cliffs that stood behind us, that continued on in the distance around the bay, were even more impressive in their size, and in their stark and sudden beauty.
“Come on,” he said, and he led me along the sand till we mounted a low outcrop of rocks, signalling the point where the bay opened up. Once over the rocks the beach continued as a wide ring of fine yellow sand. It formed a buffer between the calm waters of the bay, and the cliffs where they re-emerged a little further on. Before too long, as we headed along the beach, I saw the mouth of a small river emptying casually into the bay. The waters of its delta were of the deepest rust colour, no doubt minerals leaching out of the surrounding sandstone. It was on the far side of this small river that the high cliffs restated their significant presence.
A much narrower stretch of sand weaved through a series of boulders as Manfred led me along the side of the river’s mouth and we headed upstream. We had not progressed more than fifty yards when a small, timber boatshed appeared on our right, mounted on stumps and well above the high tide mark which was so evident on the surrounding rock.
“This is it,” announced Manfred. He then took a key from his pocket, climbed upon the landing, and fumbled with the lock.
Finally the first of the double doors swung wide, then the other. Within the windowless boatshed all was dark. All I could see was the pointed bow of a small yacht protruding through the gloom, the collapsed mast lying along its length.
“Rosalee,” stated Manfred, his arm extending in presentation of the boat.
I stepped onto the wooden landing, then in through the open doors, running my hand along the neatly painted yacht.
“Beautiful,” I said, turning back to Manfred, he still standing in the doorway. “Do you sail her yourself, or just with your father?”
“Both - although without my father I only sail her in the bay. Sometimes Isabella and I take her out.”
Isabella! - In all the activity I had forgotten about her.
“What time is Isabella arriving?” I asked, wondering for a moment how she would let herself in without Manfred and I there. He seemed to read my thoughts.
“I don’t know exactly. Anyway she has her own key.”
Together we locked up the boatshed and jumped down onto the sand.
“Follow me,” he said, and from there he led me further upstream, back along the side of the river.
For a few minutes we walked parallel to the flat, meandering stream, the waters slowly weaving a route behind us. Very quickly however our trail got rockier, boulders of differing size creating something of a labyrinth, yet with the obstacles interspersed by sand as they were, the walking was not difficult. After a while the stream turned left, then right, and the path we were following then began to steepen. Small trees and bushes were growing wild along the banks and progressively became thicker the further we went. The steepening incline made for a number of small rapids as the water found its way down from the higher plain.
“This river runs along the flat land above the top of the cliffs,” said Manfred, and he stopped for a moment to point upwards. “Its source is somewhere to the west of Dorchester. It bypasses the town and so avoids draining into the Frome.”
I looked to where he pointed, then we continued on. The open waters of the bay, as I peered behind, were quickly disappearing; the watercourse had wound in and behind the cliffs, and was now running through its own narrow gorge. The growth had also become quite dense, and that, coupled with the increasingly wild geography, had likewise removed any sound of the sea from earshot. All that could be heard was the bubbling and boiling of crystal water as it rolled and tumbled across the polished river rocks.
“This place is beautiful,” I called to Manfred, “but where are you taking me?” “A little further,” he yelled back, the sound of the descending stream growing ever louder.
As we went on, the path we were following became less defined, at times, in fact, it was difficult to see Manfred who was only ever a few yards ahead. We had been climbing steadily for some time - my legs were beginning to let me know - yet Manfred’s energy seemed limitless as he continued to power forward. Then, when we were quite elevated, the track levelled out, winding left and right, but no longer ascending. The stream was running smoothly through the rocky gorge to our left, could be seen some twenty feet below through the trees, whilst behind I could still hear the percussion of the rapids, tumbling in musical descent to the bay.
By this stage I was making no attempt at conversation, for I was out of breath and following, like a puppy, behind Manfred. He appeared to be going somewhere, but I knew not where. It seemed he had a purpose about him. Then, as we kept on through the flatter, dense area above the rapids, a noise began to emerge. It kept building, growing more dominant the further we went, a rising, cacophony of sound. The track ahead of us turned and Manfred suddenly stopped at that point, holding back the branches of the ever-encroaching undergrowth in order that I could see.
“My God,” I exclaimed, gazing out across a huge rockpool - in effect a small lake - and on its far side there poured a wide torrent of water, falling vertically from fifty or more feet, directly into it.
“Above those falls and we’re soon back on the grassy plain,” said Manfred. “It’s a bit of a walk through the forest but we can go home that way across the fields. Look at this place - the river just falls over the side. Something, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.” I replied. And indeed it was. It was a scene from a fairytale - clear, crystal water in a beautiful rocky surround, resplendently set amongst the finest of nature’s wild vegetation; an idyllic place, ironically disrupted yet perfectly balanced by the presence of a majestic waterfall.
“Come on,” said Manfred, and again he marched ahead of me, this time following an almost imaginary path that led up the right hand side of the waterfall.
We began our climb to the top of the falls, a rocky, steep ascent through bracken and fern. At one point I slipped and fell without hurting myself; the smooth rocks that rarely got the sun were moss-covered and slimy.
The roar of the falls at close hand was quite deafening, the endless waters crashing down the rock face and into the pool at the bottom. Spray from that impact rose as mist through the growth, dampening our faces and clothes. Before long we reached the top, and my whole impression was changed. It was suddenly quieter. The falls could still be heard but the heavy roar remained below the drop. We pushed through to the water’s edge, the stream flowing smoothly along the upper plateau, so innocent, so oblivious to the sudden and horrific fall ahead.
“Come on,” said Manfred, as he made for the edge of the falls.
I stopped, a little unsure, he seeing my reluctance.
“It’s alright, Alan. The big rock on the left is dry and rough. You won’t slip off that.”
Carefully I followed my friend, and soon we were both atop the rock he indicated. The view was spectacular, the waters tumbling violently like a plague of foolish lemmings, and as the roar of the falls returned, the ocean and bay were again visible across the treetops. I was about to make some comment - I don’t recall what - but the thought was suddenly lost when Manfred spoke first.
“Isabella’s sister died here.”
The words spilled calmly enough from his mouth and his tone was remarkably unchanged by the gravity of the claim he made.
“What?” I blurted back, feeling an immediate weakening in my legs.
“Yes,” said Manfred, as he continued to stare out over the falls, “it was a terrible thing - almost two years ago.”
“Manfred,” I said, “we have to get back from here. Come away from the edge.”
His words had been so unexpected and so sudden that the danger of the falls had, in my mind at least, redoubled as a consequence.
For a moment Manfred did not move but continued staring out. Then he turned to me and smiled, then followed me back to safer ground.
“My God, Manny (as I sometimes called him), what are you trying to do to me? That was not the time or place to tell me something like that. It made me dizzy.”
He immediately apologised. He then sat alongside of me on the trunk of a fallen tree. After a few silent moments I turned to face him.
“So, what happened?”
“Well,” he said, “it’s quite a story. Yvette was her name, Isabella’s identical twin. I say identical, but that’s not entirely true. Isabella was always quiet and reserved when she was younger, modest - you know, respectful. She was better behaved and more predictable than Yvette. She seemed to take after her mother - my mother’s sister - and Aunt Eva really is just a normal, middle-aged woman. My Uncle Herman is a factory worker, works in a foundry in Dorchester. He works hard I suppose, but the truth is he drinks hard too, and when he does you learn to give him a wide berth. There has never been a bad thing said about Aunt Eva, but as for Uncle Herman, well I have to say I’ve never really got on with him. He can be very moody at times, very sullen. There’ve been days when I swear he’s hated the world and everybody in it. Now, Yvette - she was someone different again. Obviously she was raised in the same way as Isabella, but my God they were so different. From an early age, Yvette was in trouble at school, and later with the law. Had her parents been able to afford it, they surely would have sent her to boarding school. She was so very wilful, and yet she was likeable enough. I remember many a good time spent in the company of both my cousins, and the two of them got on well together, despite their dissimilarity. Yvette saw the world as a place to be explored, and in every way imaginable - in ways that Isabella would never have entertained. In fact Alan, she became quite promiscuous. As it turned out she gained something of a reputation in Dorchester, often to the embarrassment of her sister. If nothing else, they did look alike, and Isabella would often be on the receiving end of some crude remark. It was always a case of mistaken identity, but it would upset Isabella very much.
Anyway, enough about that. The day Yvette died was a hot one. It was the middle of summer. The two girls had been staying with my parents at the beach house for a few days. I was coming down on the train, just as you and I did yesterday. When I arrived that night, the place was in upheaval. There was commotion everywhere when I got off the coach, and upstairs, I was told, lay the dead body of my cousin, Yvette. My parents took me into the lounge, where Isabella sat pale and shaking, a blanket around her. It was awful. In the kitchen, on his own, sat Uncle Herman. He was saying nothing, just leaning forward and staring at the floor. Aunt Eva hadn’t yet arrived. My parents then told me everything that had taken place. Apparently Isabella and Yvette had come here to the rockpool to swim; this has been a common place for all of us over the years. But after a while, according to Isabella, Yvette climbed out of the water. She said she was going to climb to the top of the falls. Isabella called out for her to be careful, and that was to be the last time they ever spoke. She said she quickly lost sight of Yvette as she disappeared into the undergrowth, then forgetting her, continued her swim. A short time later she said she saw her, standing in the water at the top of the falls and waving her hand. Isabella said she felt a sudden rush of panic, and it was then that Yvette lost her footing and fell over the edge. By the time Isabella got to her, floating face down in the water, she was dead.
Somehow Isabella managed to drag her to shore, and pulled her up onto the bank. She was about to run for help when Uncle Herman suddenly appeared from nowhere. He had come to the falls to collect them both and take them home. Isabella had to explain to her father what had happened. Then the body was taken back to the beach house and the coroner called for. In the meantime Yvette was placed upstairs, I hate to say it, Alan, but in the very room you’re using, until the officials arrived.”
Those final words from Manfred chilled me. I sat, a little stunned I suppose, because for more than a fleeting moment the notion of a ghost came to mind. A cold shiver ran along my spine, my thoughts reverting back to the shadowy figure that had emerged through the night, that had come from the blackened space where the wardrobe stood, descended upon me, then took me to somewhere I had never been. It was a bizarre, supernatural thought, yet one that fitted the facts. Despite this, my logical mind forced me to dismiss the possibility - until later that day, when I met Isabella.
Chapter three
It was mid-afternoon when Manfred and I returned. The beach house was unoccupied, Isabella apparently having not yet arrived. The day outside had been comfortably warm and, as my friend had predicted, the breeze had grown steadily in strength throughout the afternoon. It was warm enough for the pair of us to sit in the loungeroom without the need of a fire. Manfred had made us both coffees, and being the student of literature that he was, was attempting to engage me in conversation about the writings and artistic influence of William Blake. My mind, however, was more practically inclined, and though I feigned interest, this really was not my field.
“You know Rossetti called him a glorious luminary” Manfred stated, then handed me the written proof. After taking a quick glance where he indicated, but without actually reading, I handed the reference back to him. Just as I did, there came from outside the sound of approaching hooves. Manfred pulled back the curtains.
“Isabella,” he exclaimed.
I did not rise from my seat but allowed Manfred to welcome his cousin at the door. There was a muffled exchange of greetings, the sound of a suitcase being banged on the architrave, then footsteps in the hall.
“Alan,” Manfred said, as he reappeared in the doorway, “this is my cousin, Isabella.”
With that he stood slightly aside in order to make room. Isabella appeared beside him, the light from the opposite room semi-silhouetting the pair.
If my startled reaction did not show at that moment it should have, for on seeing Isabella my mind immediately and unexpectedly returned to the previous night, when the full black outline of my bizarre bedroom guest had been so perfectly framed before the dull light of the window. Startled I sat, unable to take my eyes from the female form in the doorway. Isabella was, to my utter shock, the absolute image of she who had come to me in the night. I could do nothing but stare.
After a moment, and remembering my manners, I sprang to my feet to receive her. I could feel that my face had reddened, my appearance too not helped by the sudden nervousness I felt in my smile, the uncertain tone in my voice. I felt a fool at once.