The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1506 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The children were in bed, Stella and I were sitting in the kitchen wondering where Simon was–wherever it was, he wasn’t answering his phone. I was now feeling very worried, it wasn’t like him. Surely, he hadn’t been kidnapped again, had he? A silly sort of Monty Python scenario came to my troubled mind.

Terry Jones in drag, “Where the ’ell ’ave you been–your dinner dried up three weeks ago?”

GC: “Didn’t know he took the same size as you.”

“Are you alright, Cathy?”

“I’ve got a pounding headache.”

“Why don’t you go and lie down, I’ll wait up here.”

“No, I’ll be okay–I keep getting this feeling that I’m high up and I can hear water.”

“High up? High up where?”

“I can hear the sea, that’s what it is–it’s the sea.”

“The sea? What’re you on about?”

“Oh my God–I know where he is?” I jumped up, grabbed my bag and a coat and dashed to the car.

“Cathy, where are you going?”

“I’ll ring you when I get there, if he comes back I’m wrong, call me will ya?” With that I jumped in the car and screamed out of the drive. Fortunately the roads are pretty quiet that time of night and I made good time to the motorway and headed east.

I kept thinking positive thoughts about how much I loved him and how the children were asking for him, and how worried we were. In return I felt this darkness but I could still hear the sea.

I don’t usually recommend speeding, but this car was quite happy to zip along at over a hundred miles an hour, although I found occasional cars pulling out in front of me had no idea how fast I was coming up behind them. Most saw the white Jag and assumed it was a police car, pulling over to let me pass.

I sped through the night, the car eating the miles along the A27. Chichester came and went, Arundel, Worthing and Brighton followed. I kept going, having to modify my speed in the more urban areas, but mostly I was belting along. I passed Lewes and branched off onto the A26 heading for Newhaven, where the ferry goes from.

This was all new to me, I’d never been here before, but my inner Sat-Nav system was telling me where to go. To the coast, it kept telling me, to the coast. I passed through Seaford now on the A259, which went up and down like a switchback, then finally, I came into East Dean and I could see signs for Beachy Head, a tall chalk cliff beloved of suicides. Not so long ago a whole family jumped the three hundred or so feet to the shingle below.

I drove on towards Eastbourne, somewhere I had been before and then made a right onto a single track road which leads to a pub near the famous beauty spot–though once you’ve seen one cliff, you’ve seen ’em all. Near the footpath to the cliff and the South Downs way, is a phone box. It’s paid for by the Samaritans to try and talk would be suicides into thinking again. It was here I saw Simon’s car.

As you will imagine, I felt a mixture of relief and horror. I was in the right place but would I be in time? I exited my car and pulled on my fleece jacket. It felt cold and the breeze was coming in off the sea. In the glove compartment of my car, I always keep a Mini maglite, with spare batteries. I fumbled with the box and after withdrawing the torch, I shoved the box with its spare batteries in my bag and flung the strap over my head and shoulder. Then I followed the thin beam of light which I shone on the track in front of me.

I decided to walk, obviously as quickly as I could, but running was out–the footpath was too rough, and a sprained ankle would help no one. I’d visited Beachy Head once before, several years ago and had forgotten how far the beauty spot was from the road. The darkness felt eerie and the wind strengthened as if in attempt to slow my progress. A sheep called from nearby and I shuddered, another coughed and I jumped.

How much further did I have to go? It seemed like miles, then as the sound of the sea got louder and the wind colder, I knew I was close to the cliff path.

By now my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and I could just about make out the path. I switched off the torch to save the batteries and continued in the gloom.

Here I was at last, Beachy Head, a small promontory with the long drop below it. There are similar places all along the coast from Kent to Dorset, beyond which the chalk gives way to sandstone and igneous rocks like basalt and granite in Cornwall.

I tried to look round me, but the gloom was too dark–so where was Simon? The thought of him having stepped or jumped off the edge made me shudder, if he had then part of me wanted to do the same–how could I live without him?

My eyes already moist from the coolness of the onshore breeze, began to leak tears and my sight became worse. I wiped at them with my fingers, where was he? I couldn’t believe he’d jumped–not from simple denial, but because I’d know if he was dead, and he wasn’t, I just knew it.

I started to call, “Simon, Simon where are you? Where are you darling?” Then I heard him, a small whimper to my right. I switched on the torch, he was half sitting, half kneeling, and crying.

I sat alongside him and laid my hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter, darling?”

“I’ve wrecked the bank.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have. In one transaction I’ve undone a hundred and fifty years of my family’s history.”

“If that was the case, why didn’t Henry tell me that when I spoke to him?”

“Why should he tell you? It’ll be all over the papers in the morning.”

“I’m sure we’ll cope somehow. C’mon, let’s go home and see how you feel after a night’s sleep.”

“I’ve disgraced myself and the bank–I’ve dishonoured the family and you. I have to do this, to make amends.” He rose, and once upright, began to walk towards the sea and the cliff edge.

“No, Simon, no.”

“I have to do this. Go home, Cathy, forget I ever existed.”

“How can you do this to me and our children? We love you.”

“I’ve shamed them.”

“You will if you kill yourself.”

“What d’you mean?” He paused.

“Whatever has happened, I’m sure we can work out somehow. It won’t be easy, but we’ll do it. If you kill yourself, you will shame me and our children. They’ll see you as weak and selfish.”

“But I have to do this ...”

“I thought you were strong, and generous. You offered to look after me and our children. You tricked me into marrying you, promising to look after me, to love me and cherish me. You’re a liar–you don’t love me–you’re just a selfish, weak boy, more wrapped in his own pain than that of those who love him. Go ahead, jump over the cliff, but don’t expect me to excuse it to our children. Don’t expect me to ask them to forgive you your selfishness, and don’t expect me to, either.”

“I do love you,” he was sobbing, “I do, I do love you.”

“Then prove it! Come to me and hold me in your arms once again.” The tears were streaming down my face, “Prove to me that you love me. Kiss me and hold me, be there for me.”

I could see he’d stopped and was looking towards me. “I love you,” he said and fell down in the grass, weeping. I went to him and held him so tightly I was sure we’d both have bruises the next day. “I’m sorry,” he kept mumbling, and I held on to him for all I was worth. If he was going to step over the cliff, he’d take me with him and I wasn’t planning on going quietly.

I don’t know how long we sat there. The grass was wet with dew and I was cold and stiff. I think Simon had slept a little, I cuddled and hugged him, trying to keep us both warm.

“C’mon, let’s go home,” I said to him and he nodded and we struggled to get up, stiff and damp in the now cold wind that came from the sea.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I love you, you don’t have to thank me for saying so.”

He stopped and drawing me to him, kissed me deeply. “I wasn’t thanking you for loving me, I was thanking you for having a belief in me and for being there.”

“Let’s go home,” we each put an arm round the other, and with my little torch lighting our way we walked back to the cars.