Snowstorms in a Hot Climate (28 page)

To the left, by the banks of the loch, stood the remains of an old manor house, burned to the ground in the eighteenth century the girl had said. Maybe in the evening the daughter of the house would have walked to the water’s edge and looked across at the castle. Montrose had a reputation for charming the ladies. Perhaps she had dreamed of rescue and redemption in his arms. A potent fantasy, whichever age you lived in. For others, that is. I went and stood where I imagined she might have done, but I couldn’t be sure. The sense of stillness might just have come from the landscape, not from the people who had lived in it. I couldn’t even feel the imprint of Elly. Yet if they had been there, surely some shiver of atmosphere would have remained?
I turned and made my way back to the car. The rain, I think, had stopped.

The next point on the map was Ullapool, and then the Measach Falls. If they had taken the suggested road, maybe we would now meet en route. The weather continued to be capricious, occasional sun bursting through cloud, splashing pools of golden light onto the hills. According to the map, the falls were some distance away. Cars passed me, and I caught flashes of faces. The road rolled on through marsh and moss, empty even of sheep. Ullapool came as welcome relief, a busy, pretty little seaport. Maybe they had stopped here for lunch. From a side street a police car zipped out in front of me, siren blasting, a sight unusual enough to stop a few passersby on the pavement.

Out of town, the road was better and I pushed on faster. So fast that I missed the turning. The signpost was small and badly weatherworn and, according to the mileometer, still over a mile away. It took me another three to become suspicious. When I stopped by the roadside and approached a man cutting hedgerows, he redirected me as if it was something of a regular occurrence. How much time did I waste which might have been saved? It is not a bearable question. The car park, when I eventually found it, was a leveled stretch of gravel with just two cars on it. Hardly a popular tourist spot. On the other hand, the map showed two entrances. Maybe the coaches came from the other side. What had the girl said? That you had to take a path and follow it for about a quarter of a mile. It was, she had assured me, worth the walk. Part of the Corrieshalloch Gorge, and one of the finest canyons in Scotland. The falls had a drop of over 150 feet to the river below. Even the suspension bridge was memorable, built by the man who had owned the land before bequeathing it to the National Trust for Scotland.

The path was well trodden. It had been a wet summer, and
the ground had turned to mud. Not like the California earth. I imagined J.T. in front of me, goat-dancing his way through the puddles, graceful despite his size. One canyon leads to another. I quickened my step. The path divided: to the right a sign for the viewing platform, to the left the falls themselves. I took the right. That way at least I would be able to spot anybody on the bridge. The platform when I reached it was a primitive affair, a little verandah built like a cage, jutting out over the side of the gorge. I was alone there. Scotland was beginning to feel distinctly underpopulated.

I stepped into the cage. Heights do not bother me, and this was a beauty. I was standing perched out over a drop so steep and so sheer that looking down brought a rushing sensation of swirling air plunging into darkness. The girl had been right. The Corrieshalloch Gorge was spectacular, a vast great crack in the earth’s crust into which millions of tons of ice had poured, eating like acid into the granite. Below, through the spray, the river ran like a ribbon of white foam, while above, the walls of the canyon were a dark wild green, covered in moss and lichen, softening the roar of the water. I had miscalculated. The falls were further than I’d imagined, maybe as much as a quarter of a mile away up the gorge. A vertical sheet of foam, too distant to be real. The bridge across was thin and wiry, just a few silver lines against the horizon. With eyes screwed up, I could just make out figures on it. Two of them. A man and a woman maybe. Elly and Lenny, awed by the magnificence. I was suddenly sure it was them. I had taken the wrong turning.

I walked fast back along the path, and the roar got louder as I went, a rushing, wailing sound that vibrated the air and shivered the ground beneath. What would I say to them? Our first words of greeting? My gut began to stretch taut. The track veered right, and I walked straight into a barrier slung by chains across two trees.
FALLS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
. Perhaps
they had approached by the other path. If I went all the way back and round, I would surely miss them. I clambered over the sign and continued. The sound of the water grew deafening. Fifty yards on, I came upon it—a sudden clearing with a view straight to the bridge and on either side the edge of a treacherous cliff, fenced off by long rope railings.

The first thing I looked for were the two figures, revealed now as men in blue trousers and shirtsleeves. Both of them. I registered officials. National Trust officers perhaps, inspecting. They were near the other side of the bridge now, looking into the gorge below, concentrating hard. So hard that they didn’t spot me. I took a few steps out onto the wooden slats. The bridge swayed ever so slightly under my feet. It was then that I recognized the uniforms. The two figures were policemen. I took another step and missed my footing, grabbing hold of the railing to right myself. The movement made them look up. I noticed behind them other men in among the trees at the top of the gorge, one of them with a length of rope. In front of me a figure was approaching, his hand held out to stop me.

“I’m sorry, madam. But the bridge is closed. Did you no see the sign?”

“What seems to be the trouble, Officer?” I heard my words plucked out of a subconscious made up from television clichés.

“There’s been an accident. So if I could ask you to—”

“What kind of accident?” Much louder now than the water’s roar, my voice demanded attention.

He looked at me strangely. “Someone has had a fall. Now please, madam …”

I must have tried to get past him, because I have a recollection of the bridge swaying violently, and the fear in his voice as he grabbed hold of me and called to his companion for help. Somehow they must have got me to the side, because the next thing I remember is sitting on a bench, my head pushing down
in between my knees. I opened my eyes, but the ground would not stay still. I was falling through black holes, and the water was still rushing. I knew, you see, even then I knew. Somewhere inside, I think I had known all along. I spoke, and my voice boomed through the caverns of my head. “I’m here to meet a friend, Officer. A girl, about thirty years old with short dark hair. Her name is Eleanor Cameron. She was traveling with an American. Have you see them?”

And as I opened my eyes, his face told me what his mouth could not. After that I remember nothing but a long wailing scream, which penetrated deep into the sound of the water. And then the black hole returned.

I
n the hotel lobby, the peach-skinned princess was still on duty. Her eyes grew wide with pity as she watched me walk toward the desk. Outside the main doors, the police car which had brought me home was heading through the gates, back to the glacial gorge where they were, even now, lowering men and harnesses down the cliffs in search of the body.

I had been processed through a Dr. Finlay’s casebook of care and attention. I had dreamt that Elly was dead on foaming rock. When I had woken in someone’s living room to find the dream a reality, the earth’s crust had split open to swallow me again. Tea had been administered by a kindly practitioner, who had urged tears as a release from my deathly silence, then offered
sedatives to numb the pain. But I would have none of him. Lenny had sat there before me, sitting in dishonest sorrow, sipping comfort and gulping pills. He would be sleeping now. Sweet dreams, Lenny. May you wake up screaming and sweating. “Stricken with grief.” That had been the doctor’s phrase. The very words had made me laugh out loud. And so my comforter had grown fearful for me and left me alone. Even the police had been careful. “At this stage, Miss Masterson, we’d just like you to help us check a few facts. If you’d be kind enough. Is this Eleanor Cameron …?” The picture from her wallet. Elly at twenty-eight, taken in a photographic booth at Goodge Street Station, eyes popping wide, like those of a rabbit caught in the headlights. We had laughed about it at the time. Yes, this was Elly Cameron. How long had I known her? When did I last see her? Could I give details of next of kin? They asked for facts; I gave them facts. They did not seem interested in opinions. I withheld mine. Until I had seen Lenny.

“Oh, he’s in his room, sleeping. He left instructions to wake him in time for supper.”

That’s right, Lenny. Don’t miss a meal for her. “Does he know I’m here?”

“Oh yes, indeed. He seems very relieved. Wanted me to tell you he would see you later.” She was nervous with me, her soft little face filled with compassion, trying so hard to be kind and understanding, not to intrude. But she was hard-pressed to hide the other feelings, the sense of excitement and curiosity at being so close to such drama, such tragedy. She was looking intently at me, as if trying to locate my sorrow. But I had nothing to show. Unlike Lenny.

I took my key and turned to go.

“Can I get anything sent up to you? Tea or something?”

I shook my head. I was suddenly tired of seeing her. What was it Elly had said that first night about watching soft-skinned
youth and envying it its possibilities? Elly need not have worried. She would never grow old. I picked up my trusty canvas bag and dragged my feet upstairs.

Three hours later I came down. No doubt you’d like to know what happened in the time in between. What I did, what I thought … how I felt. Well, first I ran a bath, and stood for a long time looking out of the balcony window onto the beach below. Stood so long in fact that the bath overflowed and I had to pull out the plug and let in more cold before I could stand the temperature. I lay soaking for a while, but the heat made me dizzy. So I got out, wrapped myself in a towel, and lay down on the bed. I stayed there for a while, listening to the sound of the sea. Then I got up and dressed slowly—clean underwear for Gem’s sake, and a short-sleeved shapeless black dress perfect for graduations and college functions. And on my feet walking shoes because I had no others. I dried my hair with the now wet towel and brushed my teeth. I did not look in a mirror. Then, when the hands of my watch read twenty past eight, I opened my door onto an empty hall and walked down to the dining room.

That much is easy. That much I can tell you. What I cannot tell you is what I thought or felt during that time. Because I cannot remember. No, that is not strictly true. I do remember feeling something. But it was not to do with Elly. Don’t get me wrong. I would have cried for her if I could, wept my life away. But I could not even bring myself to picture her face. There were no tears to be had. No wall of sorrow to be kept at bay. All there was was the familiar void and, at the center of it, a small hard nut of emotion, hot and cold at the same time. Hatred. I hung on to it because it was the only thing I could feel that would not destroy me, and because it proved I was capable of feeling. So I nursed it and let it grow. In retrospect, it seems to me that those
hours were a kind of suspended animation, preparation for what was to come, a meditation on war. Whatever it was, by the time I left the room I was ready.

The reception desk was empty. Thank God. From behind a pair of heavy swing doors came a delicate percussion of china and cutlery. I pushed my way in. The room was filled with echoes of Terence Rattigan, an atmosphere of genteel aging caught between the folds of heavy velvet curtains and under napkins on starched white tablecloths, each with its set of silver condiments, candleholder, and single flower vase. All this I took in slowly, a wide-angle shot, unhurried and cool. In an alcove on the left sat a couple from
Separate Tables
, thin lipped, the woman lifting a soupspoon to her mouth with exaggerated precision. A few tables along another aging marriage; then, nearer to the door, a family with two adolescent children, surly and uncomfortable in their dining clothes, obviously wishing they were somewhere else. No one was speaking. And there, to the right, at a table in a window bay, was Lenny, sitting staring at the door.

I stood for a while, savoring the moment. Then, with deliberate ceremony, walked toward him. It seemed to take me an age to reach the table. A figure approached halfway through my journey, a middle-aged man in a white jacket, the maître d’, smiling, diverting me politely to another part of the room, away from the tragedy-stricken guest. Scandal, like bushfire, travels fast. He realized, a little too late for elegance, that I was in fact the other “bereaved” character in the drama, and the gesture of deflection turned into one of welcome. He reached the table before me and pulled away the chair, deftly scooping it back under me. Then, being good at his job, he disappeared.

I raised my eyes to look at Lenny. He was sitting absolutely still, one sculptured hand resting on the white tablecloth, the
other in his lap. The skin, usually so smooth ironed and flawless, was puffy and a little crumpled, especially around the eyes. Anyone not knowing him better might have thought they were seeing the aftermath of tears. Even the steel-chip dazzle had gone from the eyes, replaced by a dullness which might have been born of a sedative hangover. As I say, a stranger could have read sorrow. But then I wasn’t a stranger. And I had anticipated authenticity. It would have been the least he could do.

“Hello, Marla.” The voice was heavy. Even the body—that triumphant, self-confident torso—seemed laden and sagging. Full marks for trying, Lenny. I said nothing. Let him sweat. “You’ve seen the police? You know what happened?” Once again the same lifeless tone.

I counted the pulse beats in the back of my neck. I had intended to nod my head. But when it came to it, I did not seem able to move. That tiny pinprick of emotion which I had nurtured so carefully was threatening to overwhelm me. I swallowed and clasped my hands together hard to avoid any unauthorized trembling.