The Causeway Café was one of those dejected-looking businesses which eke out a living on the margins of the English tourist trade. Viewed from almost the entire length of Levenport seafront, St Benedict’s Rock was arguably a thing of scenic beauty, framed by sea and sky. From here, at the very end of the road which connected it to the shore, its great mass was just a little too close, a little too massive: forbidding and black, it eclipsed the sun. No landward attractions drew interest to this extremity of the Esplanade. Its shops and arcades all clustered around the western end, where gulls circled over Levenport’s little fishing harbour and the larger hotels basked in such riches as the season could offer. Peter was one of only three customers that morning who sat at the Causeway Café’s open-air tables, braving the elements. An elderly woman in a camel coat sipped noisily at tea: a harassed mother placated her whining child. At ten-thirty despair drove Peter to text Lesley. “Cswy Caf. RU comg? Luv U, Peter.”
Five minutes, then the reply. “Y.”
He watched her approach from far off, a disconsolate figure with none of the usual purpose in her stride. Jeans, a short jacket, hands in pockets, her hay-cloud of hair flying in the stiff breeze. She looked miserable, and cold.
“Alright,” She said sullenly, “Why here?”
“I want you to come over to The Rock with me.”
“Oh, no! Just say what you want to say, and talk fast. I want to go home.”
“I can’t just tell you. You wouldn’t believe me if I did. I have to show you.”
What could he show her? How could he make her believe him – better yet believe in him? He had no idea. He only knew that here was the one person who absolutely must believe him, and she would, however reluctantly, walk with him the half-mile of wind-whipped causeway, and up the road which led around the shady, damp northern face of The Devil’s Rock.
As they walked he told his story – of his first visit to the rock, his invitation to Vincent’s home, of Toby and the cave. He did not omit his parting with Melanie, or how she had rejected the fate she was being offered. It was time to be honest about everything, because this was the only chance he would be given. Finally he explained why he had not called her that weekend; and he related the incident at Hemlington, including Howard’s part in it. By the time he had stuttered lamely to the end of his tale, they were wandering through the half-ruined, impoverished village at the foot of the rock. Lesley, who had listened without interruption, maintained her silence. Shivering against the cold she remained frostily aloof until, as they ascended the little road up the side of the rock, while still deep in the despond of its northern shade, she picked her occasion to say, loudly:.
“That’s the biggest load of crap I ever heard.”
With sinking heart, Peter nodded. “I know that’s how it sounds.”
“Peter, it’s just nuts! I mean, they could put you in a home for spouting that stuff!”
Peter turned away, afraid she would see the emotion written on his face. But then he felt her hand, slipping into his. “That would mean I fancy a head-case. I’m not that bad a judge, am I?”
He dared not trust his voice. He shook his head.
“I mean, you think you can really…..do some of those things?”
A tear escaped down Lesley’s cheek. “Fuck!” She said, swiping it away impatiently. “I’ve a shitty taste in blokes, but I really scooped the pool this time!”
They walked on together, hand in hand, then hip to hip. In the tunnel between the shady and the sunny side of the Rock, they kissed, paving the metaphor for their emergence into mid-morning light.
It was a bright autumn day, made suddenly very new.
Melanie was aware of a dark cloud of melancholy closing around her, although she could not fathom why. She had woken early to a watery sun leeching through the salt-spattered panes of her bedroom window. The wind which had demanded entry so furiously in the night had tired of its pursuit. Beyond the bay a rough sea still threw the odd scouting wave at the foreshore, but the clouds were gone. The beach beckoned.
She had dressed quietly in the clothes of last night: those she had worn on the boat were still draped damply over a clothes-horse in Agnes’ kitchen. No sound had come from Agnes’s room, so she slipped quietly downstairs and out onto the gravelly scrunch of the drive, following that weed-strewn path which led back to the old harbour. Why she so needed to return there, she didn’t know: she had no clear plans, or idea what she would find: it was curiosity that drew her – the same curiosity which prevented her from following Agnes’s driveway to whatever road it sprang from and running until she was miles from this cold, wild place.
The rock passage echoed to her footsteps. There was no gale now. Yet, if she expected the little harbour to seem more welcoming in the greater brightness of the day she was disappointed; for the place was as stark and grim as before. At the end of the tunnel the gentle breeze bit icily at her face, played a lonely lament through reeds of piled stone. The sea washed black in the harbour basin, like a cold douche of arterial blood.
She found the ruined cottage to be no more enticing than the day before, and the old boat, still as close to final decay. She wandered about the harbour for a time, as the concrete of the wall was drier and easier to negotiate. Even the stairway in the rock which led from the harbour to the top of the cliff no longer threatened certain death. There was no incentive to tarry in this harsh place, so suspending her fear she, set herself to climb. Edging past treads that had eroded away meant progress needed to be careful, and she was thankful for the odd handhold in the side of the cliff, but Toby’s assessment of her as being ‘sure-footed as a mountain goat’ proved accurate once more.
At the top of the cliff she found little to investigate. The headland was a meadow of coarse grasses raked by generations of sea-salt and gale. Of the village which had once striven for life here no more than an occasional stone remained. The sun was warm though, and one of the larger stones inviting enough to lie upon.
Stretched out, Melanie was drifting into slumber when the faintest of scratching reached her inner ear, a sound so tiny that at first she doubted it was there at all. Then a whisper came, like breathing in a silent room, as though someone or something wanted her attention. Whatever it was, it was close – beside her left ear.
With great care, she turned her head to find that just inches from her face the miniscule pin-head eyes of a snake were fixed upon her. The creature’s tongue, flicking in and out so fast it was little other than a blur, was the source of the whispering. To her great surprise she felt neither fear nor revulsion, but rather a sense of sharing, of mutual need. She adjusted her position, carefully offering a hand, palm upwards, so that the snake felt no threat. Completely unafraid, the snake responded by slipping through her fingers to drape itself over her forearm where it seemed happy to rest, sharing her enjoyment of the sun. Melanie was enchanted. As softly as she might she stroked its head, running her forefinger along the earth-brown zigzags of its length. She knew it was a viper, knew of its poison; but she knew, also, the creature had come as a friend, and she welcomed it.
The snake remained with Melanie for a while, then, possibly hearing the sounds of a Land Rover carrying in the breeze, slipped silently away into the grass. Before long a vehicle materialised. This was Agnes, relieved to have recovered her charge.
“Melanie, my dear, I thought I had lost you!”
Melanie lifted herself onto her elbows to regard her captor. “I was just here. I thought I’d look for the village.”
“Well, come back with me now. We have someone to meet.”
In the Land Rover, Agnes was solicitous. “Are you warm enough? I was beside myself! However did you get here?”
“Walked? But my dear, it’s almost eighteen miles! Whatever time did you start?”
“No. No, it’s not very far at all!” Melanie replied. “I came straight up the stairway on the cliff. It took me half an hour at most.”
Agnes said carefully: “You’ve been away two hours or more. Its half past eleven now, I noticed you had gone at nine o’clock or a little after. And I told you last night: the steps on the cliff are far too treacherous to climb. The only road to this place is this one, and it has to go right up the valley before it crosses the ravine and returns to the sea. Did someone drive you here?”
“I climbed the stairs on the cliff,” Melanie repeated. “They were slippery, but not too difficult.”
Agnes appeared to be wanting for words.
Peter was about to knock on Toby’s door. Though fond, Lesley was still reticent. Since they had crossed to the more benevolent side of Old Ben, she had rarely spoken. He felt her uncertainty; she had committed to him and he knew, in his heart, he should answer the questions she was reluctant to ask. But his own insecurities played against him. He needed to prove his truth to himself as much as to her, to show she was right to trust him. He did not understand: Lesley just needed to know she was loved.
“Peter?” She stopped him. “That time at the big house? You know that was, like, really different for me – really special?”
“I guessed.” Peter kissed her forehead. “It was pretty amazing for me, too, yeah?”
“It’s important to me – that you know?” Her eyes betrayed her fears, but Peter did not see.
The sun was high over the south side of the rock, bathing the turning colours of heathland in a warm, September glow. Most of the birds on ‘Old Ben’ were done with nesting now, singing their freedom in trees just tinged with gold. A flock of seabirds wheeled and played below them on the lower cliffs: Tern, Kittiwake, Black Back Gulls, Guillemot. Their distant cries added a descant to the song of the wind in the grasses, the tune of the blackbird and the thrush on the branch. Nothing else stirred.
“He isn’t in.” Peter accepted.
“It doesn’t matter. Peter, let’s go home?”
“Come on, I’ll show you the cave. Maybe, if you touch the rock, it will do for you what it did for me and Melanie…”
Peter carefully folded Lesley’s hand in his, leading her toward the narrow path on the seaward side.
“Now, young Peter; where do you think you’m be goin’?”
Toby appeared in front of them, his malformed figure’s awkward, rolling gait suggesting a grotesque dance as he climbed the path. Lesley suppressed a gasp of surprise.
“Toby!” Peter felt genuinely delighted to see him. “This is Lesley – we’re going down to the cave.”
Toby stopped, hands on hips, breathing heavily from his efforts. “Tain’t poss’ble, young ‘un.”
“Why not? I can do that climb now – so can Lesley, with my help.”
“What? An’ you goin’ to put ‘er at risk, jus’ to prove what you’m told ‘er? Wha’ you told ‘er, Peter?”
Peter knew the trust he had broken, yet he felt no shame. “Everything. Toby, whatever I have, Lesley shares. I won’t keep secrets from her.”
“Never’ less, it were given to you in confidence. Peter, I can’t let you past, an’ I wouldn’t if I could. That’s my job, lad. That’s why I’m here.” Immovable and austere, Toby stood between Peter and his proof: there was nothing Peter could do.
“Young Miss,” Toby said, his stooped head and up-cast eyes giving Lesley an arch look; “He’s already told ‘ee more than you’m s’posed to know. More ‘an anyone’s s’posed to know. He’s told you ‘cause of ‘ow he feels about ‘ee, that’s what I’m thinkin’. He’s different, young Miss, very different. But you can’t have what he has, unnerstand? You never can.”
Peter was moved to protest, but Lesley took his arm, drawing him back. “It’s all right, Peter, I do understand. Come on.”
“But you have to believe me!”
“Do I? I want to be with you. Isn’t that enough?”
“Take ‘er home, young Peter.” Toby said. “If she wants to stay with you she’m got troubles enough, I reckon.”
Peter still argued, but Lesley tugged his arm: “I just want to go home, Peter! We can do this some other time, yeah?”
Protesting, Peter allowed himself to be turned back up the path to the summit of the Rock. As he watched their retreating forms, Toby shook his head sadly. “Women!” He murmured. “’Credibly strange creatures, them.”
Lesley hugged Peter’s arm as they walked, keeping him close to her: “Listen – all this, it doesn’t count: it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is you’ve told me – all the places in your head you were keeping me away from, you’ve let me in. The smelly guy, the whole thing. I’ll try to believe you. It’s all mad, but I’ll try. Seems like I can’t bloody live without you, so I’ll have to, won’t I?”
The sky was beginning to cloud over as they made their way back, past the house where the little girl played. She at least was there, dancing her secret little dance in the garden, as always. Lesley watched her as they walked past, a laconic smile on her lips. “Oh, sweet!” She murmured: “Petey, look at that!”
They, allowed the steep gradient of the hill to draw them down, back through the tunnel which led them to the dark side of the island. Peter’s fear of impending doom at this point was unwarranted, for Lesley was not Melanie. There would be no parting here. Nevertheless, he clasped Lesley to his side protectively and when he heard the clatter of approaching horses, drew her close to the wall to let them pass, and it did not seem at all extraordinary to him that the creatures pulled a carriage, any more than it was unreasonable that the coachman wore a full livery, or its passengers, a young man, a veiled woman and a little boy, should be dressed in Regency fashion. The carriage had past them, and Peter was looking after it as it made its way into the tunnel when he realised that Lesley was leaning into the wall with him and expecting to be kissed.
“That was nice and spontaneous!” She murmured when they had disengaged, “If you want to go caveman on me it might be a bit public, though. Your bum’d be visible from most of the Esplanade.”
He laughed. “I just didn’t want you to be flattened by a coach and horses, that’s all. Although now you mention it…”
“Oh, there was a coach and horses, was there? And here’s me thinking ‘he’s into exhibitionism now’! What next?”
“Les! There was an old carriage – it passed us, just then!”
Lesley scowled, then gave a smile: “If you say so, love.”
They walked quite slowly: for a long time neither of them said much, their minds too full of each other to need words. Back at the Causeway Café they ordered coffee and sat inside on scrooping wooden seats to warm up. There was a real chill in the air now, and no sign of the sun. On an impulse, Lesley kicked Peter’s leg under the table. It hurt.
“What was that for?”
“Well, you being superhuman and all, I wanted to see if you feel pain.”
“You were right to try. I didn’t feel a thing.”
The coffee came.
“Peter, I don’t understand what this is all about, I don’t really care. But if we stay together, I mean, if it works out that way, I want us to be happy, Okay? I know it sounds stupid, but in fifty years’ time I’d sort of like to be like that insane old woman.”
“As if! You’d like to be an insane old woman?”
“She was happy, Peter. She might have been a bit cracked, but she was happy. It was lovely. I’d like to be a bit like that.”
“What old woman?”
“That one back on the rock: you saw her – the old dear dancing in the garden.”
“Wait a moment.” Peter tried to understand. “There was a little girl – a child – dancing in a garden. You said how sweet she looked.”
Lesley watched Peter’s face closely; seeking something she didn’t comprehend, but knew was there. “Pete, that was not a little girl; that was a very old woman. She must have been, like, eighty or something?”
A truth dawned on them both. “I saw a little girl.” Peter said.
“Yeah, you did, didn’t you?” Lesley breathed. “Oh Peter!”
© Frederick Anderson 2021. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.