Free Looking Down by Frances Fyfield Page A

earlier in the spring, reaching the place where the path led beneath the overhang, near the
Do not walk
sign, which puzzled him, because half of it was missing and he had a vague curiosity about what the rest of it might say. What else could you do here than walk? He was feeling a little shaky, realising that he could not go down that path again, still puzzled as to why he had ever had the courage. And he would have to go there again, some time, and he was postponing everything by staring at the broken sign. He should have brought a hat. In the distance on this clear afternoon he could see France and it looked alluring. A voice spoke, unexpectedly close to his ear.
    ‘It says “Do
not walk closer than twenty metres from the edge”.
Or it used to say that once. None of these signposts last long in the wind.’
    Richard turned to see the doctor. The name evaded him and the face swam into focus, slowly but surely. His own solid, almost ugly face split into a smile. The doctor had a narrow, canny face, not smiling yet but open to suggestion. He and this man,
What was his name?
had had a real conversation, all about bruises and vertigo but authentic communication nevertheless. The doctor and he had spent quality time together. Richard liked the doctor, knew it had been mutual.
    ‘If I were you,’ the doctor said, ‘I would come away from here. If Edwin sees you, you might not like it. You’re still under suspicion, you know. And you’re too close to the edge.’
    Richard nodded. There was no point in arguing or asking who Edwin was, and feeling shaky meant he was also biddable. He followed the doctor back to the doctor’s car, feeling generally but controllably unwell.
    ‘Does your wife know you’re here?’ the doctor asked.
    John
, that was his name. John Armstrong.
    It did not seem an odd question. Richard was trying to remember if he had told Lilian exactly where he was going, or if he had only mentioned for how long, or if he had told Fritz.
    ‘I expect so. I hope so.’
    They stood together in the car park, both with hands in pockets, curiously reluctant to part.
    ‘They still don’t know who the girl was, you know. The one you sketched. I wouldn’t hang around here until they do, if I were you. You can’t expect to be popular. Why did you come back? You’re the first witness and therefore suspect . . . why did you think I took swabs of your hands and scrapes from your fingernails?’
    ‘Did you? What a relief. That would prove I couldn’t have touched her.’
    ‘No, it wouldn’t. Would you like a drink?’
    ‘I think so.’
    The feature of the old Vauxhall of which John was most proud was the miniature cocktail cabinet in the left-hand glove compartment. You still called it that if you walked on the cliffs because that was where you stuck gloves and hats, except in John’s case they littered the back seat and the glove compartment contained a selection of miniature bottles of whisky, gin, etc., and two small glasses held stable in a homespun construction of wire. Richard registered the age and scruffiness of the car, sank into the passenger seat which looked as if it had been chewed to death by a dog, and let out a deep breath. Yes, a whisky, with the thought running through his head,
Why is this man being so nice to me?
    ‘I am kind and curious by nature,’ John said, by way of explanation of the unarticulated question. ‘And I dislike seeing suffering. I would rather try and head it off at the pass than witness the consequences. And you almost went over the edge of the cliff back there. I thought you were testing your vertigo. So why did you come back?’
    Richard sipped, missing the hovercraft sound. The nausea passed, and the drink was heaven.
    ‘Because the other day was one of the best days in my life,’ he said slowly. ‘I had a model. Models are hard to find, I tell you. She was beautiful. And I saw the chough. I’ve tried to paint it all and I think I’ve failed. So I had to come